The Wicked Wiles of Pickett Piles

My father told me this story, which was passed down from his father and his father’s father and his father’s father, who used to live in the old country, Überland, when he was just a little child. Back in that land the citizens all lived in humble huts with straw thatched roofs and only in small little clans, very personal, very intimate. My great-grandpappy lived in a village called Naturliebshutten (I know, it’s a bit of a mouthful but don’t preoccupy yourself too much on the pronunciation, let us just continue.) It sat homely and cozy in the bosom of a beautiful valley that laughed in a bubbling blue creek and yellow-pocked mountain avens and regal purple asters. The people conducted themselves in good behavior and merriment. The children were sweeter than the waters that slithered down from the mountains and more cheerful than even the Rhaetian poppies that burst out of the coarse mountain soil. Many “holidays” were devised in sly fancies as excuses to bring out the creamiest fondue you could ever dream of, wine so sweet it was too easy to drink too much, rösti so crisp and salty that the water flooded your mouth from behind your molars, sausage so fragrant that the nose experienced a great awakening of sorts; and of course plenty of dancing, especially the village’s own dance called the “Naturliebsliebendanz,” the most lively and wild courting dance you would have ever seen, where the two young lovers dance and spin in a square made up of the other dancing villagers.

Yes, I imagine that there never was a happier group of people than Naturliebshutten, nestled in those foothills ornamented by vivid mountain and meadow flora, where the eagles soar above and the deer race through. But a great trouble did afflict these happy-go-lucky people once before my great-grandpappy’s time, that the young men and women talked about all the time. In fact, he heard this story from a bright, eager young man named Rudolf Jorganssen, whose blue eyes sparkled when he giggled as he recounted this treasured story. I hope I can do him justice, but I’m afraid I’m not so lithe and jovial as dear old Rudy. 

My great-grandpappy- your great-great-grandpappy, you remember me telling you about him, Lorik?- had sat beside an old millstone, picking away at the moss collecting on that cool, damp surface, when he heard Rudolf and a group with the bachelors and bachelorettes recounting that story with much bravado and emotion and sentiment- the women laughed and giggled and kicked their skirts with laughter, the men would chuckle and slap each other, all had twinkles in their eyes. The storyteller would start out chipper and bright, then would laugh, then would drop his tone down to an impossibly quiet hush, then rocket back up in a shrill yell that would startle the whole group and set them all off laughing again, then would grow mournful and solemn, and everyone’s faces would sober and eyes would fall to the ground, then the speaker’s voice would be pumped full of awe and wonder and respect, and everyone would smile again and cheer and whoop. How could all this excitement not intrigue this curious young boy! 

When the party broke up and everyone began to depart to their late afternoon chores and duties, Lorik would plague the men, asking questions and what were they doing, but they would shoo him off. He tried plaguing the women, who would almost give in to his dirty, pouty face and those moist dark eyes, but were quickly distracted by a potential beau’s sentimental gaze. Lorik had given up and reserved himself to his little millstone, resignedly scratching off the moss yet again. But one young man had seen him and took pity on him, also eager to tell this story to a fresh pair of ears.

“Hey, Lorik!” Lorik’s head shot up in surprise as a young man came bounding up to him.

“Rudolf? What is it?” Lorik queried in curiosity. Rudy slowed his pace and then took a seat beside Lorik on the emerald grass. He smiled at Lorik through teeth like the snow that settles on the

bluebells. His eyes glittered with mischief and he narrowed his eyes, turning them into navy crescents, and his nose crinkled. 

“So… you want to hear the story, don’t you? Of the most ornery boy that’s ever lived in Nat- besides you, of course.” Rudy taunted in a hushed, suspenseful tone. Lorik didn’t even mind the good-natured tease pinned at the end and nodded wholeheartedly. He was speechless.

“Well…” Rudy adjusted his white stockings and his black suspenders, “I think it’s about time you’ve heard it. It’s a true story, y’know. About…” he glanced dramatically side to side, then leaned in close, “about Pickett Pyles.” His voice took on the tone of a greatly invested storyteller, and Lorik swore he could see that tapestry that Rudy’s brilliant words wove in his little mind. The world around him and Rudy faded to nothing and he bathed in the tale.

“Some say that as a lad, Pickett was raised by the very wolves that mauled his parents to pieces. For one day they left on an especially snowy night, one of the worst blizzards we had ever seen. The elders desperately warned them to not enter into this grandfather of a storm, but for some reason, they did not heed their advice, and were quite bent on leaving the safety and light of the village for the ruthless sting of the frozen winds. Nobody quite knew what drew them- I don’t think even they knew. It was like some kind of blind faith, some sort of pilgrimage, something in their very souls that acted as a magnet to something far greater, a purpose far beyond them. And to the utter grief of the village, they brought their baby boy with them. The rumors at the time claimed them to be bewitched by evil spirits or demons, claimed that those who got close enough to really look them in the eyes saw nothing in them. It’s hard to tell, though. We’ll never really know.

“The village never did see Pickett’s parents again. Not until several months later, when they found their bones, gleaming unnaturally white near the top of a mountain, and the teeth marks in the bones told the whole story. But what chilled them to their own bones was that no remains of the baby were to be found. Pickett was written off immediately as dead, but the missing little body left lingering doubts in the back of many of the villagers’ heads. And they were right to doubt.

“Exactly one moon cycle later, on the night of the first harvest moon, Pickett was found at the edge of Old Man- well, he wasn’t an old man back then but- Old Man Adelrich’s dairy farm after he heard his cows complaining and bellowing more than usual. There was little Pickett- miraculously alive, but violently tugging at the tails of the cows. Adelrich immediately took him in, and he and his wife Sönä in sober duty decided to raise the boy as their own. To this very day no one really knows how Pickett survived in the wild for nearly an entire year, with the same little stockings and suspenders and tunic he had on the night his family left. But every once in a while, the boy would growl, and of course that senior couple was very quick to nip that in the bud. But ach, were they dedicated! They never got to have children of their own, so when that wild little boy showed up at the edge of their property they considered him a gift from Gott Himself, but much to our misfortune, they ended up nearly spoiling Pickett.

“Pickett was spoiled on chocolates and nary had to lift a finger around the house. Sönä would coddle the needy boy, yelling at poor Adelrich when he tried to enlist him in the physical labor around the house, like chopping the firewood or milking the cows. Adelrich, made uncertain by her sudden fierce maternal instincts, would soon shut up and shuffle back to work, not wanting to upset the peace that for so long dwelled in their homely hut. Sönä did really try to educate him- spelling letters from straw, counting numbers using tulips, singing hymns by the hearth after supper. But Pickett blew away the straw, stripped the petals off the tulips, and screamed and giggled over Sönä’s beloved vocals. Worse yet was Sönä’s insistence on keeping Pickett away from the other village children, who picked on him once and called him a wolf boy. She had scolded those children, a few of them cried afterward, and she held Pickett protectively beside her skirts. 

“Luckily, with much convincing Adelrich was able to convince Sönä to send him to be taught by the village’s schoolteacher, Miss Serafine Abendrose. “She’s a very good young lady, my dear, and she’s very good at what she does. She could even tame the mountain winds, you know that. I think she’s our best hope for little Pickett.”

‘“But you saw the way those little wretches made fun of our poor boy! He’s been through quite enough, don’t you think Adel?!” Sönä starch brown curls bounced emphatically with each stressed word, her small brown eyes narrowing in intense sympathy for the lad.

‘“They are just kids, dear. They will taunt and tease, that’s what they’ll do. They will grow out of it, and if they don’t, shame on them and their parents, not Pickett. We must let him into society at some point. The more they learn about the wolf boy, the less he will be the wolf boy and the more he will become just a good boy. But we need to get him civilized first like the other children. We can no longer shelter him. We must let him live a little,” Adelrich implored wisely to his dear wife, who he observed had grown too soft to Pickett’s demands, and intended to be the firm anchor.

“Sönä pursed her lips for several moments, then silently agreed. So the next day the older couple walked Pickett Pyles to the schoolhouse under a pastel blue sky adorned with cumulus puffs. The sun sat on the purple, white-capped mountains like a brilliant golden eagle’s egg. The day was very agreeable, but Pickett proved to be as obstinate as a summer storm. When Sönä let go of his hand and began to walk away from the children gathering at the edge of the Naturliebshutten creek, he pouted and stomped his little feet and threw an awful tantrum. The couple was embarrassed, and Sönä’s eyes were finally truly opened to the monster she had helped create. Adelrich gently took her into his arms and they strode their way back home.

“Miss Serafine found quite the challenge in that naughty Pickett. In his early youth he would pull hair, steal toys, and vie for her attention by throwing the most abominable fits when he wouldn’t get his way. His teeth were rotting from the overabundance of chocolate he was given and he was dirty and quite smelly from his special stubbornness against bathing. The other children, raised by parents who had much stricter morals and rules, grew uncomfortable and downright spiteful of poor Pickett at this young age, which did him no good later on. For these children unwittingly perpetuated this negative feedback loop where Pickett got less and less attention and more and more ridicule and derision, and soon found himself an outsider again, this time by his very own actions. However, the worst was yet to come.

“By the time Pickett was twelve he had cemented himself as a troublemaker. Oftentimes the baker would find his settling sourdough flooded with creek water, the blacksmith’s tools were strewn about his floor, the priest’s robe was covered with the melted wax of the votive candles, the butcher’s trout were released back into the water, and Miss Serafine rude words scrawled on the blackboard in stark white chalk. Poor Adelrich and Sönä were constantly winding their way through the afflicted villagers, going to this hut and that hut to send their apologies and have Pickett set things right, but he never did learn his lesson for a long time. 

“But I haven’t even told you the worst of it: Pickett tried drowning the village’s beloved cat Schnuki! And boy, is that a story!

“The king and queen of the land made their rounds that year on a royal visit through their entire territory, bringing morale to the land after a hard winter. For the first time in decades, the royal family planned to visit our small village. I was old enough to remember, Lorik- what an exciting, romantic time! All the village was buzzing and fussing over their arrival, making sure all the houses were spic and span, the roads clear of debris, and we children clean as whistles, smartly dressed in our best, and kind and obedient. Tulips were clipped and arranged in bouquets and hung upon door lintels. The baker and chefs were planning another spectacular feast with their rarest and most expensive ingredients from around and outside of that land, with much help from the women. I was also part of the children’s choir. We sang ancient patriotic Überland hymns. Oh, and did I mention they brought their daughter, the princess Annaletta?”

“The queen?!?” Lorik ejaculated. 

Rudy chuckled. “Yeah! But at the time she was the princess.” He sighed, tilted his head, then looked up at the sky, reminiscing. “I was so deeply in love with her as a kid. She was my age, and Pickett’s.”

“Well yeah, everyone’s in love with the royal family,” interjected Lorik, rolling his dark eyes.

“I suppose you’re right, Lori. But sometimes we get lucky.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well let me continue, cherub!

“Old Pickett was quickly smitten by the princess, as was I. And well, we began to really butt heads. We started shouting at each other and I said something I shouldn’t have, which made him real sore: I said a princess could never love a wolf boy. Yes, the old epithet still stuck, and not just because he was raised by wolves. His manners were abhorrent and he acted like a wild animal as well. Anyways, it hurt him real bad, and just then he saw Schnucki strolling down the street. He knew very well that my younger sister Bell really loved that cat, with her whole heart and soul, and he knew exactly how much I loved my sister. So he grabbed the poor puss and began to drown him! Luckily my sister was looking for him right at that time, calling for him, and oh boy, when she caught sight of that evil Pyles boy holding her precious cat under the water… she screamed so loud that if you can just strain your ears, the mountains still echo her piercing cry!

“It chilled me to my very bones, and I was off in a flash in the direction of her cries. Pickett had since stood up and was holding the half-drowned Schnuck by his scruff. I barreled into him and pushed him into the creek, letting go of Schnucki in the process. He ran off right into the princess’s arms, who stood and stared at us both disapprovingly. Both of our parents grabbed us by the ears and tugged us home, but not before apologizing profusely to the royals and inviting them to their homes for tea and some dinner. They, shockingly, graciously accepted the offer and so Pickett and I went to his home.

“The princess wasn’t so thrilled at first. Sitting at the small table at Old Man Adelrich’s hut, she would often look disappointedly between Pickett and I, especially Pickett, since, like I said before, his manners were abhorrent. But the princess had a true heart of gold. I suppose she saw something in Pickett that no other person, except maybe Sönä, saw in him. She giggled occasionally at his coarse jesting and unbecomingness, and would signal from across the table the correct ways to do something- and you know what? It actually worked. 

“The truth is, Pickett found a kindred spirit in Annaletta and was rather attracted to her manners and firm values, as she was attracted to his rough-around-the-edges style of living. The king and queen ended up quartering at Pickett’s since they played together for so long and hit it off so well. To be honest I cried all night. But this story isn’t about me, now is it?

“Unfortunately for Pickett, the next day the family moved on to the next village, and he didn’t see Annaletta for another ten years. But it was a miracle- Pickett was really, really trying to be good. He was cleaner, gentler, shared more often, and even became the smartest boy in school. He was a different kid, and real charming too, with quite the love for adventure and work and rough play. 

“Ten long years passed, and Annaletta returned, her and Pickett now a young woman and man. They were able to reconnect their tender friendship, and soon they began courting. I’ll never forget what Pickett told me about her-”Gott sent me her- I know it. He sent me an angel because I was heading straight to hell, and I know if it weren’t for her I’d be burning now.”

“Now, dear old Pickett is king, and a very fair, honest, and good one at that. And if I’m being honest, I’m damn proud of him.”

Rudy got up, walked toward the sun sinking on the meadow, and stood there, thinking, watching. And my great-grandpappy swore to himself to never forget the tale, and pass it on down to his children. 

Learn the tale well, my lads. Breathe it. Live it. Goodnight.