He was, by the accounts of others, an impractical young man. “Well, he is the son of a tailor,” they would whisper, as if that somehow accounted for him walking into a cow, a puddle, or, like today, the large glass window in front of the bakery.
“He’s probably dreaming up something to top that lace shirt,” laughed the baker, wiping her hands on her apron. She rapped on the window to get his attention.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mobley,” he said as he opened the door, “I’ll clean the smear off.”
“How is your mother, Midas?” Mrs. Mobley handed him a cloth.
Midas just shook his head and took the cloth. He didn’t want to cry in front of her.
She followed him outside, “Thais has good doctors.”
The walk to Thais was a two-day trek through a heavily wooded area known only as “the forest.” He rubbed the window forcefully, “I’m going there now.”
“Watch out for robbers,” Mrs. Mobley held out her hand for the cloth, “Travel only by day.” Her forehead creased, “Will anyone go with you?”
“Just me, ma’am,” Midas handed her the cloth and turned away from her. It was still early, but he needed to get on his way. He walked past the blacksmith and the grocer, leaves crunching underfoot as he entered the shade of the trees. At first he could still see the blue of sky between the branches, but the farther he went, the less light entered the canopy.
He saw no one all day, his walk seeming infinite in its tedium. By nightfall he was exhausted and hungry. Sipping water from a river, he slipped in and was almost carried away. Struggling back up the bank, he spent the night shivering and miserable.
As soon as there was enough light to see, he started walking again. He jittered down right side the path, oblivious to the cairn on the left side of the fork. The path narrowed, another sign that he had made a wrong turning, but Midas was unaware of his mistake until he stood at the doorstep of a log cabin. Baffled, he knocked on the door.
He stood there and shivered for a few moments before trying the knob. The door creaked open, the warmth of the cabin pulling him into its embrace. “Hello?” he called, “Anyone home?” He took a tentative step inside, “Hello? I’m a traveler and I fell in the river by mistake. Could I warm myself by the-“ There was porridge, still steaming in three mismatched bowls on a rough-hewn table.
Midas’ stomach growled. “Just a bite,” he told himself, “No one will miss it.” He picked the largest bowl, figuring that it would be less noticeable. The porridge burned his mouth, and he dropped the spoon with a splat. More carefully this time, he dipped into the medium-sized bowl and made a face. Someone had added so much milk that the porridge was cold. He tried the last and smallest bowl with little hope that it would be any better. To his surprise it was perfect and before he could stop himself, he had eaten the entire bowl.
Now that he had eaten, Midas felt the wet of his clothes even more. He flopped in the largest of the three chairs by the fire. It was overstuffed, and he shifted uncomfortably on the firm cushions. The chair next to it looked softer, but it provided no support. The last chair was a simple caned affair. He sat down a little too hard, his bottom going straight through the caning. “Oh no,” Midas rose looking at the chair with pity. He really should tell someone about the broken chair, but the only place anyone could be was up in loft.
He scaled the ladder, tripping over the last rung and flinging himself face-first onto the loft floor. “Ouch,” Midas squinted in the dim light. There was nothing except a row of three beds. “Let me guess,” he muttered, “the last one will be the most comfortable.” Having said that, there was only one thing to do: test the theory. Midas pulled back the covers on the largest bed. Like the overstuffed chair, it was as firm as packed earth. Midas approached the middle bed, cautiously sitting on the side of it. His body sunk into the bed, and he struggled out of it, “Too soft.” He looked at the smallest bed. It looked homey, inviting. As he lay down, the vaguest notion crossed his mind that maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
———————
Papa Behr stopped short outside the cabin door. It was open a crack. Mama and Babe both drew their knives, their eyes scanning for signs of danger. Papa kicked the door open with a bang. The three Behrs darted into the cabin, assuming their fighting stance.
“I don’t see anyone,” Babe relaxed slightly, still keeping her back to her parents.
“Neither do I, but someone has been eating my porridge,” Papa pointed a the porridge dripping down the side of his bowl.
Mama turned to look, “I think someone tasted my porridge too.”
Babe gasped, then ran to the table, “Someone ate all of my porridge, I shall chop off the thief’s head.”
Papa sheathed his knife, then settled into his chair, “Ick! My chair is all wet.”
Mama felt her chair cushion, “Someone wet has sat in my chair.”
“My chair!” Babe squeaked, sticking her hand through the broken caning, “I shall chop off the vandal’s buttocks.”
“I’m going to check the loft,” Papa rose, wiping the back of his pants. Mama and Babe trailed him, each taking a turn on the narrow ladder. Papa pointed to his turned down covers, “Someone has been sleeping in my bed.”
“Someone has been sleeping in my bed,” Mama agreed.
Babe said nothing, the look on her face was one of utter astonishment. Someone had been sleeping in her bed, and he was still there! Papa let out with a roar, and the boy awoke. He jumped out of the bed, falling out of the loft onto the floor below. Babe lept from the platform, landing catlike on four limbs. She drew her knife, holding it to the boy’s throat.
“S-s-sorry,” croaked Midas, “I was traveling . . . my mother’s sick . . . I fell in the river . . .”
“Let him up, Babe,” Mama came down the ladder, “You can tell by his clothes he’s a townie, and not a wealthy one either.”
Babe pressed the knife in harder, a drop of blood forming on the blade.
“You’re hurting me!” Midas’ eyes had the sheen of a deer in a trap.
Babe released him with a growl, “He ate my breakfast and broke my chair. And I hate townies.”
“Are you going to Thais to find a doctor for your mother?” Mama offered Midas a hand up.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Midas gratefully stood, “My dad is a tailor. I can’t fix the chair, but I could make your . . .” he looked at Babe puzzled, “child? Something, er, to wear.”
Mama looked amused, “Fancy Babe in a dress.”
Babe scowled at her.
“I think that’s a fair deal,” Papa sat on the edge of the loft, “Babe will accompany you. When you get home, you will make her the grandest dress you can.”
“Er . . .” Midas looked at Babe. She looked back at him, licking his blood from the edge of her knife, “Is that safe?”
“Well,” said Papa, “she did say she would cut you from both ends.”
———————
END
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As much as I've always loved the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, there are a few things that bug me about it. Probably the biggest thing is that I could never figure out why Goldilocks was gallivanting around the forest and wandering into random houses. What was her motivation?
The other thing that bothers me is Mama Bear's porridge. This bowl of porridge seems to exist in a state that is in direct opposition to the laws of thermodynamics. Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't the medium sized bowl have a temperature that is somewhere between the large bowl and the small bowl?
After reworking this story, I started thinking about what would happen next. My favorite idea was that once Babe is cleaned up and clothed in a fancy dress, Midas completely loses any interest he has developed in her during their journey. I would love to apply that idea to Beauty and the Beast or the Frog Prince.
Heck, maybe I will.