Peter

Hi folks!

The other day I posted a story,

"Henry"

about a boy and an owl.

It was a commissioned piece that I wrote for a client on

Fiverr.

This person had requested a Grimm's fairy tale type of story

with an owl.

Well, I actually ended up writing two stories for this client.

I wanted to share the other one with you.

Grimm's fairy tales are the original, spoken fairy tales

that were told by women around the hearth

many, many years ago.

The Grimm brothers collected them into a book

with some of their own.

These stories always include a moral

and ended rather darkly...

Little Red Riding Hood?

Yeah, the woodcutter chopped open the wolf.

Violent deaths were not uncommon.

So...I present to you:

"Peter"

Once upon a time, in a country far, far away from here lived a young boy named Peter.  Now Peter lived in a small fishing village situated on the edge of an enormous sea.   He was an only child and his parents spoiled him because they loved him dearly.  He was well known as a mischief-maker who played harmless tricks and pranks.  The other boys who lived in the village envied Peter’s boisterous ways and often got caught up in his shenanigans.

Peter’s schoolteacher, Mr. Asher, certainly knew of his tendency to be rowdy and talkative.  Mr. Asher worked hard all day to keep his charges in line.  Certainly he strove to keep a disciplined classroom.  But Peter!  It was as if his mouth was the mouth to an endless river of words.  Peter could often be found in the corner, dunce hat perched on his head, whispering to himself.  The real kickers were when he would slyly turn his face to his audience and cleverly imitate Mr. Asher; followed by a wink. 

Mr. Asher often stopped by Peter’s home to speak with the boy’s parents about his conduct in school.  At first, they were pleased to see their son’s schoolteacher, although they were a bit confused as to his complaints.  “Boys will be boys,” Peter’s father would chuckle with an easy-going smile.  “You are a young teacher and you will need to learn how to take control of your classroom, you see.” 

His mother would nod in agreement and add sternly, “You need to stop picking on our boy.”

The last time he had appeared at their cottage to ask for their assistance in the matter, “What are you doing here again?” Peter’s father had stormed.  Then, he had threatened poor Mr. Asher; “You need to learn how to control your students.  You blame my boy for the chaos in your school as an excuse!  Why, I should go to the school board and speak to them of your incompetence!”  After his last visit, Mr. Asher became rather reluctant to visit Peter’s parents and to speak to them about their only, beloved child. 

Typically, by the end of the school day, Mr. Asher could be found at his desk with his aching head in his hands.  At the same time, Peter would be merrily racing out the door and was often observed leading a small band of laughing, scuffling youngsters.  They would chase and tease each other all the way through town, stopping at many of the stores to play pranks and tricks. 

Although the boys were having a grand time, many of the storekeepers would cringe when they spotted the gang coming down the road.  None of the storekeepers could agree on which was worse.   Was it the boy’s rowdiness they minded the most?  True, they were like the stray dogs and pigs that sometimes wandered in from the streets.  The boys’ disruptive ways did upset and disgust their customers.  Was it the jokes and stunts they minded the most?  After all, the boys meant no harm but wanted a good laugh at their expense.  But it got wearisome when they were busy.   Perhaps it was the racket they made that irritated them the most.  Ear jarring, head splitting and mind numbing noise!  What the storekeepers did agree upon was that those boys were like pesky flies: annoying to the senses and hard to keep out of the shops.

Peter’s parents certainly heard their share of complaints about him. Every time his mother would visit the butcher or the baker, she would hear of his latest antics.  “Oh my!” she would laugh in reply, “That’s just what boys do.”  She would then admonish the complaining storekeeper, “You need to stop being so sensitive.”   To another storekeeper she might protest, “Why he’s only one little boy!  What’s the matter with you?”

During a lively visit to the shoemaker with her son, she sat calmly and smiled whilst the boy fooled with the man’s tools, climbed up his shelving and did a jig in the store window.  “Ma’am,” the shoemaker pleaded as he picked up his tools from the floor, “he needs to stop!  Please get your son in hand!”

“What?” she replied in astonishment.  “Fine, then!” She began to wave her arms and called out, “Peter!  Peter! “ several times before she got his attention.  She implored him to, “come sit down for the nice man,” as she held up a sweet for him to see.  The boy eventually meandered over to sit with his mother and grabbed for his sweet.  As he pushed it into his mouth all at once, he let the wrapper fall heedlessly to the floor.  After a few quiet moments chewing, he discovered a cat sleeping near the stove and hurried over to pull its tail.  Peter’s mother smiled indulgently at her only boy.  “My!  Children certainly have a lot of energy!” 

“Yes, he certainly does,” replied the exhausted shoemaker.  He was obviously a bit disgusted about the boy making such a mess of his shop.

“It’s been a long time since you have had young children, sir,” she retorted.  “You have forgotten how much goes into mothering a vigorous child.”  At that, she gathered up her boy and her purchases and swept out of the shop.  The shoemaker put a ‘closed’ sign on his shop door and retired to the back to take a nap.

After messing around in the shops and chasing pigs through town after school, Peter’s band of boys usually headed for the edge of the enormous sea.  For it was here that they really could let loose and play.  There were long grasses to explore, large rocks on which to be king and seagull eggs to throw.  As long as they stayed near the shoreline, the fishermen were not too unhappy. 

One day our carefree and merry little band was searching for seagull eggs when they found an abandoned little boat hidden in the rushes.  Soon the boys were engaged in a new project: their boat!   They were still bothersome, they were still noisy but now they had a purpose.  Sadly for Mr. Asher and his sore head, the school days now saw an increase in the noise and excitement.  The storekeepers, however, were more than relieved by the lack of visitors.  The fishermen were satisfied that the boys were now occupied with something practical.  They were quite satisfied, that is, until the day the boat became sea worthy.   Suddenly, the ones in the little village who detested the noise the most were not Mr. Asher the schoolteacher, nor the beleaguered storekeepers but the men who were the backbone of the village: the fishermen.

The day the boat was ready to sail was a big day for Peter and his gang of boys.  School was unreasonably loud with the boys fidgeting, chattering and itching to try out their new boat.  Not surprisingly, shortly after lunch, poor Mr. Asher finally declared school over for the day.  Leaving Mr. Asher sitting at his desk, with his head in his hands, the boys did not waste any time escaping the schoolhouse.  Leading the pack, as usual, was Peter.  Running chaotically down through the village, the boys whooped and hollered their joy.  The storekeepers, surprised by the early start to the noisy part of the day, peered out their windows and watched the little gang dash by.

The boys scrambled into their little boat and set up the sail.  Yiippee!  And away they went!  The sun was blazing gloriously high in the endless blue sky as the sails caught their first puff of wind. Skidding and hopping the small waves, the little boat went sailing.  And so did the noise!  With a roar of hoots and jubilant yelps and shouts the boys were absolutely flying over the enormous sea. Before long, the crew was headed straight for the fishermen in their large, stodgy fishing boats with their vast nets dragging behind them.  The fishermen, quietly mending their nets and caring for their fish, heard the boys before they saw them.  So did the fish.  As the fishermen began to stand up and stare at the spectacle gap mouthed, the fish swarming beneath them began to flee.  The fishermen held up their hands and yelled for them to slow down, to stop and especially to be quiet!  But the boys, filled with delight and speed in their lungs, did not slow down.  They did not stop.  And most certainly, they could not be quiet!  That afternoon they boated, they sailed and they flew like birds over the enormous sea.   As usual, they were unaware of the chaos and destruction they left in their wake. 

The brilliant sun was setting over the sparkling sea when the boys reluctantly decided to call it a day.  It was not until they approached the shoreline, that one boy turned around and saw the angry mob of boats following them.  He quickly notified Peter, who decided he would rather not stick around and chat with the fishermen when they reached the shoreline.   His cohorts agreed heartily.  

They reached the shallow waters, banked the boat and jumped out.  So did the angry mob.  Terrified, the boys ran as fast as their legs could move them.  They ran past the stores, they ran past the school and they ran past the little houses in the village.  They ran and they ran.  So did the fishermen.  They were ready to mete out some form of punishment.  The storekeepers, having long suffered with the boy’s behavior and noise, eagerly joined in the chase.  They, too, were ready to see the boys, especially Peter, finally get punished. Poor Mr. Asher heard the mob racing by the schoolhouse and peered out nervously to see what the noise was about.  Uncertain as to their intentions, Mr. Asher took to the chase as well.  As much commotion and turmoil as those boys created--he felt the need to calm everyone down.  

Soon, the boys were approaching the dark forest at the outer edge of the village.  Wrapped up in creepy vines and dark shadows, no one in the village, not even the boys, had ever ventured into the tangled trees.  The forest was a dangerous place inhabited and terrorized by ungodly beasts, disturbing sounds and, it was rumored, a cruel witch. 

As the edge of the forest loomed in front of them, the boys realized they had to make a choice between braving the unknowns of the forest and facing the angry mob.  At that moment, every one of those boys chose to stop the chase, repent of their misdeeds and take their punishment like good boys.  Everyone stopped, that is, except for Peter.  Peter was stubborn.  He had a right to be filled with merriment and youth!  So, off he ran into the dark, snarled forest.  Soon, the brambles and stinging nettles slowed him down and he stopped to catch his breath.  He could hear the villagers at the edge of the woods calling out his name, telling him to stop, commanding him to come back and threatening more punishment if he did not hurry.  But Peter was not about to stop.  He had always gotten away with his behavior and he was not going to stop on that day. 

He found a narrow deer path and began walking further and deeper into the woods.  He could hear nothing except for his pounding heart, his heavy breathing and the disappearing shouts of the villagers.  Long after he had left the whispers of their cries behind, he found a curious little shack and walked straight up to it.  It had a few rudimentary items such as a chair, a table, a fireplace and a bed.  Ah!  How fortunate life always was for Peter!  Straightaway he closed the door, climbed up on the bed and fell fast asleep. 

With a jerking start!  Peter woke up to see a sliver of moonlight reaching into the little shack through its tiny window.  “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!”  He heard a strange voice.  As he sat up in the bed, he looked out the window to see an enormous bird of some kind perched on a branch of a tree.  It was looking at him.  Directly, looking at him.  He bit back a horrified scream, for he had never seen an owl before in his life.  Petrified, Peter held his breath and stayed very, very still.  He was dearly frightened and shaking uncontrollably.  He passed out.  The next thing he knew, it was morning.  The huge, scary bird with the enormous, penetrating eyes was gone. 

Peter found some berry bushes nearby.  He also found some nuts that he was able to crack open and munch.  He was exhausted from yesterday’s events.  His body was rather sore from sleeping on the hard bed.  He was not quite sure yet about the bird that had haunted him during the night.  “Perhaps“ he thought, “that creepy bird was a bad dream.”  Yet, to Peter, life still seemed pretty good.  He had shelter, berries and nuts and then he discovered a cold stream nearby.  He could stay here for a long, long time. 

Before long, he felt comfortable in his new surroundings.  He was not about to find his way back to the village, at least for now.  For Peter lived in the moment, ready for any adventure.  Peter amused himself by climbing a few trees.  After a while, he found a bird’s nest with exquisite blue eggs tucked inside.  “Hoorah!” He shouted.  He reached in and carefully took the eggs and put them into his coat pocket.  He cautiously made his way down the tree and over to his little shack. 

He stood a little ways off and using the shack’s window as a target, began to pelt it with the little blue eggs.  “Woot!” He cried each time he hit his target.  The contents of the eggs slid down the window and side of the shack.   It was getting dark in the woods, so he went about gathering berries and nuts for his dinner.  After a few minutes of this, some giant birds started circling and screaming above him.  “What strange birds!” he thought as he finished picking and eating his dinner berries.  Splat!  Came the first white bomb onto his head.  Splat! Came another.  Peter reached up his hand to feel the top of his head and it came back to him covered in bird waste.  “Huh?” He thought, but he soon could not think as the birds, apparently out of bombs by then, started diving at his head and furiously pecking him!  He put his hands over his head and ran for his shack!  He shut the door just in time to keep out the pecking birds.  Ew, he was a mess!  But, there was no way he was going out to the stream to wash up.  Those birds were out there waiting for him and it was getting rather dark outside.   He started to call for his mother, but realized he no longer had a mother to bring him bath water or to wash his sticky, stinky hair.  He had no one.  Sad and smelly, he stretched out on the hard little bed and quickly fell asleep.

“Crack!” Peter’s smelly head jolted up in surprise.  The large, ominous bird was back on its perch on the branch of the tree outside.  It was so large that the limb had started to crack.  Again, the owl’s penetrating stare was visible in the moonlight.  Peter opened his eyes wider and wider as he tried to take in the entire scene.  Soon, his eyes felt like they were about to burst.  His mind was disturbed by the haunting figure in the moonlight.  From the tips of his toes to the crown of his head, he was shaking uncontrollably in absolute fear.  Once again, he held his breath and kept himself very, very still.  Dawn was stretching her fingers through the window glass when he woke up.  He realized he must have passed out from fright again during the night.  He carefully rose up and took a peek out of a corner of the window.  The bird was gone.

Opening the door to the shack, he stepped out into the pale bits of morning light coming through the treetops.  Just what was that terrible stench?  As he walked around his shack in an attempt to figure out the offensive odor, he came upon a collection of blue, broken eggshells.  Oh…right.  Back in the village, the ocean water had washed away the broken seagull eggs.   Pondering this, his hand went back up to his head.  Now, his head was a mish mash of sticky and hard.  “Yuck!” he cried out and quickly decided to wash off in the nearby stream. 

Stomping through the underbrush and shouting hateful things about birds, both pecking and staring, Peter made his way to the stream.  He was looking forward to dunking his head in the cool water when unbeknownst to him; he tromped near a mother skunk’s den.  He never saw the skunk and never heard the hiss, but abruptly, he was dripping wet in a foul rotten egg liquid.  Blinded in both eyes, he started screaming and thrashing about, stumbling and crashing into trees and being tripped by roots.  When he arrived at the bank of the cool creek, he quickly dunked his head into the water.  He came up gasping for air and then dunked his head down again, trying desperately to scrub away the hardened goo and the liquid.  As he scrubbed, he also scrubbed the spots the screaming birds had pecked into his head.  What a miserable start to his day! 

Getting up, Peter was getting aggravated.  He was soaking wet, reeking to high heaven and still dripping a bit of white goo from his head.  It was then that Peter realized that he had nothing to dry himself or his hair.  Frustrated and muttering to himself, he attempted to shake the water off of himself.  This was no fun at all!  On top of it all, he was starving and needed to pick berries for his breakfast.  He wandered around for a while until he came across a large, berry-laden bush.  

He started to reach for his first berry when he heard a grunting sound.  Bending down, he found himself almost nose to nose with a set of dark eyes.  It was a wild boar!  But, instead of being scared, Peter was getting very, very cranky.  He was sore from sleeping on a wood bed, exhausted from the nightmarish bird, wet and stinky from the skunk and creek baths, his head hurt, his eyes stung and he still had goo dripping down into his ear.  And he was ravenous.  Picking up a large stick he found nearby, he went after the boar.  Slashing and screaming, he fought that boar!  Finally, the boar lowered his head and viciously charged Peter with his mouth open, drool and hideous noises emitting from it.  As he reached Peter, the beast quickly reared up and slashed him in the chest with his tusks.  Stumbling backwards, Peter attempted to turn and run.  He staggered to the nearest climbable tree and scrambled up it.  It turned out to be unfortunate choice as it was the very tree from which a large bee’s nest hung.  As the angry wild boar huffed and roared below, the bees smelled a dangerous enemy perched outside their front door.  A drone was sent out to study the situation.  Peter smacked in his direction and within moments was swarmed by the entire bee colony. Screaming only introduced a new place for them to sting.  Fortunately, the boar had forgotten Peter and had stalked back to his berry bush.  Still under attack, Peter painfully climbed down the tree and escaped to the safety of his little shack.  A few bees followed him inside, but he was able to ward them off.  

He sat on the chair, under the window, huffing and puffing, writhing in pain and trying not to smell the rotten egg smell, and himself, for that matter. Again, he had made an unfortunate choice.  Ants had discovered the rotting egg slime on the outside of the shack.  While Peter had been away, they had formed a line of marching worker ants carrying beads of yummy rotten egg back to their nest.  They had also sent out a search party into a crack in the window frame to explore for other sources of food.  That search party had just discovered Peter’s chair.  And Peter. In a flash, he was smacking and flicking the ants that were crawling all over the painful bee stings on his body.  Finally, Peter started screaming from the extensive pain and the absolute terror of it all.  He collapsed on the floor and passed out.

That evening, in utter exhaustion and resignation, Peter gently laid his poor body down on his hard bed. As he lay there, shaking and shivering, he felt something small and liquid rolling down his cheek.  It was a tear.  As he lay there with his body bruised, puffy and aching, he let the tears roll down his face.   

He heard a heavy fluttering sound outside and a familiar ‘crack’ sound from the nearby tree.  “No. Not the bird.  Oh, not the bird!” he thought.  His heart raced and pounded inside his chest.  Fearfully and painfully, he lifted his head and looked out the window.  He squinted with his swollen and bleary eyes.  Yes, it was the enormous bird.  And was he going mad?  Was the bird speaking to him?  “Peter!” it said, over and over.  “I must be senseless to think that bird is saying my name.” He agonized, fear and misery gripping his mind and soul with their claws. 

 “Peter!  You must listen to me now.” The bird was saying.  “I am Sophia, the Goddess of Wisdom.  It is time.”  She declared ominously and sternly.  “It is time for you to start school.”

“Where is that hysterical, wild laughing coming from anyways?”  Peter wondered.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, back in the fishing village, the little band of naughty boys had been properly punished.  Meek and mild now, they worked quietly and diligently to repay for their wicked ways.  Their hands were no longer idle.  The storekeepers and fishermen and even Mr. Asher the schoolteacher had many, many chores that required their attention. 

 

A new respect for the schoolteacher, the storekeepers and the fishermen began to develop and grow in the boy’s hearts and minds.  They had never stopped to realize how much effort it took to stock and maintain a butcher’s shop.  They did not realize what fine tools and math a shoemaker utilized when making a pair of shoes.  It came as a surprise to them that fishing would be so exhilarating.  While mending the fishermen’s nets, a quiet peace settled upon each of them.  Even sweeping out the schoolhouse and its wood stove brought a measure of satisfaction.  They soon discovered that the village’s wheels of economy and life were like cogs in a finely tuned watch.  Each member of the village was dearly important.  Not only was their work important, but their attitude and mutual respect for one another was valuable as well.

They were forbidden to speak of Peter.  Understandably, they did not want to speak of him, much less think of him.  They could hear his screams from the forest.  Their imaginations did the rest.

 

A wise old owl lived in an oak
The more he saw the less he spoke
The less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can't we all be like that wise old bird?