A Likely Story

At dusk the two noticed the distant glow of a campfire and heard in the gloaming the murmur of voices. “Perhaps we should stop and pay our respects,” William said quietly, though what he really wanted was dinner. “First let’s find out to whom we’d be paying them,” said Barney, ever the stickler for grammar and caution. “It wouldn’t be wise to drop in unannounced on a nest of rapscallions and footpads.” Creeping forward in silence, they edged close to the campfire. There, in the flickering light, sat neither rapscallions nor footpads but a down-on-their-luck family of bears, dining on what remained of a fish. As the travelers approached, the largest of the bears – the patriarch, named improbably Theodore (“Don’t call me Teddy”) -- poked his nose into the breeze. “Show yourselves!” he bellowed, catching the scent of the interlopers, “or be prepared to suffer the consequences.” “What are the consequences?” William inquired, weighing his options. “If you’re inedible, nothing worth mentioning,” said Theodore. “If not, we’ll have to see.” William had always considered himself inedible, but realized that others might differ. “I’m taking the chance,” he told Barney, “but don’t worry. I still have the walnut.” “Do as you must,” said Barney, who had little faith in magical nuts. With that, William strode boldly into the makeshift campsite, consisting of three crude tents with a small keg of honey, and introduced himself. Theodore seemed mildly disconcerted, but not about to forsake good manners and tear his guest limb from limb. William was grateful for that and, relaxing his grip on the walnut, proceeded to make conversation. “I see there are three of you,” he began. “Do you by any chance know the story of The Three Bears?” It was a weak opening gambit, he knew, but he had to start somewhere. “Know it?” exclaimed Mrs. Bear, whose name was Irene. “We’ve lived it! We’re not out here by choice, you know. We’ve been evicted!” “That’s right,” piped up her son Orson, once known as Baby, but now a hulking 400 pounds. “First it was the porridge, then the beds, now the house. Curse the day we heard the name Goldilocks!” “No cursing,” said his mother, aware she had company. “But you could have mentioned the chairs.” William was stunned. “You’re saying Goldilocks had you evicted?” “Not her,” Irene explained. “Big Freddie took the house as a wedding present. Not that she wants it. For one thing, it was the scene of a grave childhood trauma – she’s terrified of the place to this day. For another, she’s got no use for Freddie. She said she’d rather marry a goat. Goats didn’t know if they should be flattered.” “Freddie wasn’t too pleased either,” said Theodore. “He shut her up in a tower until she relents. She’s been up there for months and shows no sign of relenting. Meanwhile, we’re living al fresco.” “So where would one locate this place of confinement?” inquired William, who sympathized with the plight of the homeless but had always had a yen to meet Goldilocks. “A mile or two over there,” said Theodore, pointing helpfully in a direction William took to be east, though in the dark it was hard to be sure. “But visitors aren’t encouraged. The place is heavily guarded by mice.” “That doesn’t sound too intimidating,” observed William. “Lots of mice,” said Theodore. “More than you could ever imagine. They crawl all over you. It tickles, but it’s also disgusting. You can see why the elephants left.” “There are elephants in these woods?” “No more,” said the bear. “Freddie wanted them gone. Hence the mice. For some reason, elephants fear them. I’ve never been clear about why.” “So these mice do Big Freddie’s bidding?” asked William. “As long as he supplies them with cheese. They’re mercenaries, not volunteers.” “Be that as it may,” said William, “I think we’ll pay them a visit.” “Tie your cuffs in a knot,” advised Theodore. “Otherwise they’ll run up your legs. And if you see the three pigs on your way, give them a shout. They might help.” “The Three Little Pigs, of Big Bad Wolf fame?” asked William, astonished to be meeting so many of his childhood heroes. “The same,” confirmed Theodore, “though in the natural course of things, being pigs, they’re not so little anymore. Nor, for that matter, is the Big Bad Wolf quite so bad. You’ll see.” The pigs’ home, as it revealed itself the following morning, was a neat brick bungalow of solid construction built to withstand high winds or heavy breathing, as it had done on one famous occasion. Once encircled by a white picket fence and rows of geraniums, it now had the look of a miniature fortress, surrounded as it was by a deep, narrow moat and an incongruous phalanx of mousetraps. Fortunately the drawbridge was lowered, allowing William to reach the front door. His knock was greeted with a deep and unnatural silence, as if life within was in a state of suspension. Then came the click-click of scuttling pigs’ feet, followed by a cautious “Who’s there?” William introduced himself to the door and all those presumed to be standing behind it. “The bears sent me,” he said. Silence again. “Why?” asked the voice. “That wasn’t entirely clear,” said William. “We’re on our way to see Goldilocks.” “A fool’s errand,” the voice said unkindly. “What do you expect from us?” “Good will,” answered William. “That and helpful advice, if you have any.” “That’s not too much to ask,” said the voice after a pause “You’re welcome to come in if you’d like. But tell me, what’s your interest in Goldilocks?” “That too is unclear. We’re on a quest, seeking an object not yet known to the seekers. For the moment, the journey is destination enough.” “Whatever that means,” said the voice. “Personally, I’d advise you to make up your mind. I went on a quest once myself. Do you know what a grail is?” “I have no idea,” William admitted. “Neither did I, but I traveled the world to help find it. Never did. A pretty silly business, if you ask me. I was held prisoner by the Turks for awhile. Fortunately they don’t eat pork.” With that there was a whirring of cylinders and the metallic thunk of bolts being drawn. The door swung open, revealing a gouty plush-looking hog who identified himself, incongruously, as the Third Little Pig, known in the family simply as Terzo. (His mother was of Italian background and had named her sons for the order of their birth.) Two other pigs, obviously deferential, stood to one side. “William, is it?” began Terzo. “These are my brothers, Primo, onetime architect of a house made of straw, and Secondo, whose previous residence was constructed of sticks. And, in the bedroom, our friend and dyspeptic boarder, the Wolf.” “Leave me out of this,” croaked the wolf, who appeared ill and enfeebled and was dressed, ironically, in the manner of Red Riding Hood’s bedridden grandma. “I told you never to leave the drawbridge down.” “Don’t mind him,” said Terzo. “He’s always out of sorts. But he’s right about the drawbridge. It’s supposed to be up day and night. Even in the best of times, pigs live in a dangerous world. And these are not the best of times.”