Origins and setting
This Norwegian wonder tale—told in the valleys and fjords and written down in the nineteenth century—belongs to the ancient motif of the external soul: a monster who hides his life outside his flesh so that no sword can kill him. Its cast is brisk: a king with seven sons; six elder princes turned to stone by a man-eating giant; the youngest, a humble “Boots,” who succeeds where splendour fails; a captive princess cunning enough to draw out secrets; and three helpful creatures—a raven, a salmon, and a grey wolf—who repay kindness.
The tale
I. Six princes turned to stone
There was once a king who had seven sons. The six elder were fine fellows in bright clothes; the youngest was nicknamed Boots, for he was quieter and handier than grand. In a neighbouring kingdom lived six princesses as lovely as the day is long, and the king sent his six elder sons to fetch them home to be their brides.
They rode with jingling bridles until they came to a high mountain where a black castle clung like a crow. The road ran so near its gate that a voice hailed them from the dark:
“Turn in here, my bonny lads,
and warm you at my hearth!”
The princes rode on without so much as a “God save you.” Then the ground shuddered; the road itself seemed to heave; and out strode a giant, shoulders broad as a byre door, eyes like cold moons.
“**If you’ll not come in, you shall stand without,
and stand you shall—stone!”
He struck the earth; and where the princes and their brides had been, there were twelve grey statues, each with terror fixed in its face.
When the news crept home, the king’s beard went white in a night. “Who will bring me back my sons?” he cried. The ministers looked at their shoes. Then Boots stood up and bowed.
“Father, give me leave to go.”
“You? With your patched coat?”
“A patched coat catches no claws,” said Boots gently. “Let me try.”
II. The mercies on the road
So Boots took a small sack of food and rode off on a shaggy farm horse. He had not gone a day when he saw a raven hunched on a rock, feathers all askew.
“Give me a bite, lad; I’ve had no pickings three days,” croaked the bird.
Boots broke his loaf. “There’s enough for two.”
“I’ll remember,” said the raven.
Further on he came to a salmon floundering in a drying pool. Boots slid down and heaved it back to the stream.
“I’ll remember,” flashed the fish, silver into the deep.
At dusk the trees moved aside and a grey wolf stood in the path, ribs like barrel hoops, eyes like wet stones.
“I’m starving,” said the wolf, very plain. “Horse or man—you choose.”
Boots stroked his nag. “You’ve carried me honest.” He slipped the bridle and gave the horse to the wolf.
The wolf ate—swiftly, cleanly—then sat back, licking his whiskers.
“You gave me your horse; I’ll be your horse instead.
Climb on, and hold fast.”
Boots swung himself up, and the wolf ran like weather, over hill and heath and up into the cold backbone of the world.
III. The castle under the mountain
At last they came to the giant’s castle: walls black as a well, gate like a mouth. “Wait for me here,” said Boots, and went in softly. In a side chamber he found a young princess—no statue, but living—pale and proud, with eyes like winter sky.
“Hush!” she whispered. “He sleeps. Who are you?”
“A king’s son; they call me Boots. I’ve come for my brothers and for you.”
She looked a long look and nodded once. “Then learn what I have learnt. This giant keeps his strength well. He has no heart in his body.”
“Then where is it?”
“That he will not tell; but he is vain of it. We may wheedle it from him—if you have patience. Hide behind the hearth-board.”
Boots slid into the shadow as the gate boomed and the giant came in, the hall shrinking round him. He sniffed.
“Faugh—here’s a smell of man’s blood!”
“What nonsense!” purred the princess, laying her hand on his sleeve. “Only a sparrow fluttered down the chimney.” She served him ale and sat him on the great bench and stroked his bristled head.
“You’re so dear to me,” she said sweetly, “I could fancy I felt your heart beating. Where do you keep it, my raven?”
The giant chuckled. “Under the threshold, pretty one.”
Next day, when he was gone, Boots and the princess lifted the stone and hacked; the giant came home and roared:
“Ow—mind my heart!”
“Your heart?” laughed the girl. “Why, that’s only the heart of an old witch that used to live here.”
The giant grunted, half pleased to be teased, half uneasy.
That night she tried again, softer than milk.
“No, truly—where is it? I’ll kiss it to sleep.”
“In the cupboard, my duck.”
They smashed the cupboard into staves. The giant clutched his side and howled; the princess only smiled.
“There now! The heart of the old tom-cat that stole your cream. Yours is safe enough.”
He squirmed, torn between pride and pique.
On the third night, with her cheek against his leathered throat, she whispered:
“If you loved me, you’d tell me.”
Sulk gave way to swagger.
“Far, far away, in a lake lies an island;
on the island stands a church;
in the church is a well;
in the well swims a duck;
in the duck there’s an egg—
and in that egg is my heart.”
He slapped his knee and laughed till the rafters jumped.
Boots, behind the hearth-board, mouthed the lesson like a prayer.
IV. The fetching of the heart
At dawn Boots slipped out to the wolf. “Friend, to a lake with an island, to a church with a well.”
“On, then,” said the wolf, and they flew. They came to the lake, dark as a pupil; out in the midst lay a green island with a white church like a tooth.
“I can swim you over,” said the wolf, “but church doors like a key.”
Boots paced the shore. A black pinion blotted the sun.
“You fed me,” croaked the raven, dropping to the bell-cot. “Let me pay.” With a neat hook of his beak he lifted the key from the sacristy window where it hung.
They crossed; the lock turned with a sigh. Down in the dim nave was the well, and as Boots leaned over, up shot the duck, green head flashing, and whirred past his ear.
Boots sprang; the duck sprang higher. Then the raven stooped and pecked her crown; she cried out and dropped the egg—plop!—and it fell into the lake.
Boots’ heart went hollow. But from the blue depth a silver back curved, and the salmon broke water with the egg safe in his mouth and flipped it into Boots’ hands.
“I’ll remember,” said Boots softly, and the fish was gone.
V. The breaking of death
Boots crossed back on the wolf’s broad back with the egg cupped like a sun in his palms. They ran to the black castle. Inside, the princess sat quiet; the hall rang to the giant’s boots.
Boots stood out and held up the egg. The giant’s colour went out like a snuffed lamp.
“Don’t break it!” he screamed, suddenly small in his great hide. “Don’t! I’ll give you half I own—my gold, my cows, my lands—only don’t touch it!”
Boots squeezed a little; the giant buckled and gasped.
“Then first—” said Boots steadily, “set free my six brothers and their brides. Turn them from stone.”
The giant lifted his hand; the twelve statues in the yard softened and sighed and stepped down alive, pale and blinking.
Boots pressed again; the giant howled.
“Bring forth all you’ve stolen—rings, crowns, the years you took from folk’s lives—bring them back.”
Chests thumped open; treasure spilled like corn; the air felt lighter, as if a bad weather had rolled away.
Boots looked at the princess. She nodded once. He cracked the egg; within gleamed a needle as fine as a hair. He snapped the point, and the giant fell to his knees. He broke the shaft, and the giant crumpled like an empty sack and blew away to grey dust, as if he had been waiting centuries for someone to remember the right way to touch him.
VI. Homeward and after
They feasted three days in the black castle, which was not so black once the shutters were opened and laughter went up the flues. The six elder princes embraced Boots and learned a little modesty; their brides laughed for joy till their hair shook; the princess who had kept her head through fear laid her hand in Boots’s without a word.
When it was time to ride, the wolf stood ready.
“What thanks do you ask?” said Boots.
The wolf’s tongue lolled in a grin. “You gave me a horse when I was empty; you gave me work when I was full. If ever you hear a pad in the snow and think yourself alone—call.” He trotted into the trees and was gone like a thought.
The raven took to the bright rafters of the king’s hall; he never went hungry there. The salmon bred untroubled in the clear streams, and there was a law made that no net should be drawn in the royal waters in spawning-time, “for an old friend’s sake.”
Boots and the princess were married, and on the day the bells were hung again, the youngest prince said softly to the crowd:
“He had no heart in his body—
but we have ours in the right place.”
And if anyone doubted it, there were twelve living couples to prove it, and a kingdom that slept easier, for the sort of fear that turns you to stone had had its egg cracked and its needle broken.
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