We have come to think of Myth to mean something that is untrue. A lie that we tell our children to keep their minds soft. To permit them their fancy for a moment longer, before the call of adulthood hardens their heads for the future. But Myth was not always thought of in this way. What many have forgotten is that, within these spectacular tales, our deepest truths have taken root. Truths that escape the strictures of reason. Truths that are unknowable, that lurk as a shadow of doubt within us, only to rise whenever we look outside ourselves and wonder: ‘Is this all there is?’ Indeed, there is much in this world that is, in its truth, unbelievable. And there is no Myth more baffling to comprehension than the legendary misadventure of Gunnar Gundolf and the hanging of the Pfeffermann.
It is a story that takes place in the castle town of Pfefferton, at a time when it was much more than memory. A time when it still stood proudly, stone upon stone, dressed in the fine silks of its long, hanging banners. For any that came to Pfefferton, whether turned upon by sharpened arrow or the fanfare of polished horn, they could not deny the constant statue’s claim over the thicketed lands. An obdurate monument to the King’s dominion.
On the night of this tale the town slumbered under the frigid still of Yule. The castle walls were moonstruck with a ghostly pall and high shadows stalked the corners of the alleyways, cold air bristling with fangs ready to bite the breath of any prey caught outside. The cobblestones, slick with frost, stung through the thin soles of the peasant’s brogues, reproaching the numbed drunkards that spilled out from the taverns with a frostbitten tickle of the toes. Yet, though these streets were treacherous, tonight they are beneath our concern. For this tale, our interest is above, over the hay-thatched roofs and steaming chimneys, to the halls of the castle proper where the settling chill could not reach past the castle’s well-fueled braziers.
It was here, in these halls, that Gunnar Gundolf pursued his sport, delicately swimming the balls of his feet through the woollen fibres of the royal red carpet. The selfsame Gunnar Gundolf that relieved the Court of Salzig of its golden harp, not before he famously became King for a night in the Queen’s bedchambers – while still leaving with all ten fingers to count his coin. He was a man who rode the wind from town to town like a bird of prey. Although whispers of his misdeeds would arrive before he did, when he landed his soft leather shoes on a doorstep he needed only to point his sparrowhawk nose or curl his blonde moustache to purr his way into a bed for the evening, before slipping out like a snake come first light.
And so it is befitting of the man that we have found him now, holding himself with catlike poise, melting into the interior as if his form were cast from the light itself. His aquiline figure hidden underneath a bell shaped fleece, leather-strapped around the waist such that the hem flared at the knees. It is a calculated wardrobe on this night, well-coated for the weather whilst being amply pocketed for the Treasury – of which Gunnar had already plundered, as thieves of reputation do, stuffing his coat from neck to waist with enough glitter to star the sky. Yet when he moved there was naught but the faintest tinkle to betray his crimes; even now as he bent down to cup an ear to the door of the Queen’s quarters.
He was listening for movement which, despite Gunnar’s renowned obscenity, was not a romantic gambit but a measure of reconnaissance. It was known to him that the Queen of Pfefferton was yet to produce a male heir, so, by his estimation, while the moon hung so near above and her fertility was at its peak, she should now be receiving the King in royal rumpy-pumpy. I’ll spare the reader their propriety and just say that the moaning timber beyond the door was confirmation enough of Gunnar’s hunch.
With this knowledge that the King was so engaged, Gunnar was freed to traipse cocksure and unmolested about the castle’s interior. And traipse he did. He came bounding down the stairs from the third and second floor, a bobbing dome of fleece, arms hugging his chest to contain his overstuffed bosom. He made no effort to conceal his cavorting for, being as well versed in Monarchic security as he was in Monarchic insecurity, he knew the King would have surely dismissed all guards from their posts this evening – anyone within earshot of his performance. The rhythmic clap of his shoes hit the uncarpeted stone of the ground floor of the Keep and Gunnar pirouetted, caught up in the gaiety of the moment. Still no sign of the Watch; snuffed torches stretched from courtyard to gatehouse. Ahead of Gunnar was a straight, un-surveilled path to freedom and riches.
Then there was a rumble, small though it was. A subtle quivering of Gunnar’s empty stomach. He had glided past the kitchen and the aromas of a well-stocked pantry had wafted across his path. A well-stocked room of any kind is a temptation to a thief, but on a night so perfect for larceny? What risk could there be, he thought, in stopping to sup on a Pfefferton quail, or to make a souvenir of a suckling pig? It would certainly, at least, make for a generous gift to offer to a reluctant host. Gunnar’s belly grumbled again, louder. So, he decided to follow his nose to the King’s kitchen, moving deeper into the Keep’s warm light.
As he sniffed his way through the twisted halls flavours began to burst from the ether, making the lacquered points of his moustache tremble beneath his twitching nose. Whiffs of rosemary bloomed in his nostrils. Savoury smells made his mouth wet and his jaw tingle. His pace quickened more and more as his gastronomic lust fastened, spurring him onto his tiptoes while his weight carried him forward, almost to the point of tumbling over. When he rounded that last corner he all but ran into the kitchen, his hands outstretched with wriggling, sticky fingers.
But when Gunnar stumbled into that room, what he saw made him lose his appetite. Something that had escaped our dashing rogue’s estimations. Standing before him, barefoot and mouth agape, were the King’s two infant daughters, robed in plain-white gowns. Gunnar landed heavily on one foot and froze, waiting for his wits to catch up with him. The girls stared back with identical sets of unblinking, brown eyes from beneath their straight, brown fringes. The smaller of the two clutched a slice of ham to her chest and leaned behind her sister. Gunnar had caught the pair in the midst of a mischievous pantry raid, but it was he that was exposed. He was embarrassingly overburdened with wealth at the moment, and witnesses could mean the word could get to merchants to turn in any good-looking travelers wanting to sell. What’s more, the girls were an ambitious stride away from where he stood, and he was not sure his coat allowed the reach he needed to throttle them both before they ran. However, before Gunnar could test this concern, the eldest child whispered a name from between ham-greased lips:
The Pfeffermann.
And there a thought dawned upon Gunnar. A smile stretched slowly across his face. The children had mistaken him, in his hunched and swollen frame, to be the Yuletide Gremlin who haunts misbehaving children in the winter. These girls had been caught red-handed, eating past their bedtime, and now they must pay the price of the Pfeffermann.
‘That’s right.’ Said Gunnar, ‘I am He. The Pfeffermann. I smelled mischief and so I have come.’
Gunnar took a single, jingling step and the two girls scattered. The smallest one shoved her half chewed ham into a basket of pears that lay on the floor. The taller small one lunged for the shelves and pulled out a wooden bowl full of green peppercorns, then offered it to Gunnar with both hands.
‘Please don’t take our toes!’ She pleaded. ‘We’ll help you plant your pepper. We’ll help you plant it in everyone’s shoes.’
Even then, so long ago, all the good boys and girls knew how to appease the Pfeffermann. If ever you were unlucky enough to glimpse his oily visage in the night, you must help him plant his pepper so that he may smell your feet wherever you walk. Else he would take your toes so that you may not walk at all. And though Gunnar was no good boy, he remembered the Pfefferman’s tale as well. He slid his hand under the bowl and held it in his palm, sending the youngest girl scrambling back to bury her face in her sister’s gown while he narrowed his eyes in thought.
‘Well, we’d better start the rounds then. Before your father finds out. Show me to the shoes.’ Said Gunnar.
The King’s daughters ran ahead, hand in hand, in a patter of little feet. Gunnar followed close behind in a bouncing half-jog, trying not to let his insides ring out too loudly. The first stop was the servants’ quarters – a long hall filled with cots for the live-in staff. The girls crouched outside the entrance and, with serious brows, pointed to the neat row of worker’s brogues that lined the outside wall. Thankfully, for Gunnar, the help of Castle Pfefferton boarded in windowless rooms, making it more practical to air out the day’s stink in the halls.
Gunnar cocked an eye into the dark room, to be sure, then warned the girls to be silent with a long, gremliny finger to his lips. He took the peppercorns and roughly sprinkled them down the line, ending with an empty-handed flourish to show he was done. The girls nodded and took off again, guiding the Pfeffermann to each and every unseasoned sole in the Keep. They peppered every shoe in sight. They peppered the dusty slip-ons of the Bakers. They pepper the curly-toed leathers of the Jesters and Musicians. They even peppered the knee-high boots of the animal Sloptenders, caked as they were in unmentionables. When the girls stumbled, the Pfefferman’s long, loping strides would catch up to them and his black leggings would sneak into the corners of their vision, sending them gasping and rushing ahead again.
Gunnar himself even began to get into the spirit of things. While they scaled back up to the second floor to the daughters’ rooms, he tossed peppercorns over his shoulder with joyful abandon. When the time came to pepper the shoes of his little helpers, he took the last four ‘corns from the bowl and gently placed them, one by one, into the heels of their pink slippers, laid out dutifully alongside their wardrobes.
‘That’s it. We’re all done for the night.’ Gunnar said, tipping the empty bowl over and shrugging. ‘And not a moment too soon, for there are many more naughty boys and girls I must visit in Pfefferton.’
He was eager to leave. Though his moonlighting work as the Pfeffermann was completed in short order, he did not have all night at his disposal. Proceedings would have surely concluded between the royal couple, and he’d never heard of a kingdom being raised twice in one night.
‘But mama and papa…’ came a trembling voice from the youngest daughter.
Gunnar tutted. ‘Don’t you worry about them. I know the King and Queen very well. We have a special deal, you see.’ He drummed his fingers along his chest. He had brewed another scheme of his, and its cunning crept its way into another lurid grin. ‘They grant me passage across the rooftops of Pfefferton, letting me snatch up all those grubby children that run about the streets without shoes, provided I make sure that their two daughters behave themselves back inside.’
They stared at him with the same wide eyes that he had discovered in the kitchen. Gunnar had them in his thrall. He leaned over and pointed his sharp nose down at them.
‘Yes ‘tis time that I, the Pfefferman, make his leave. Show me to the door young ones, and be thankful that this is all I need from you tonight. For if I have any reason to return, should you be pilfering from the pantry, leaving your bedroom after the candles go out, or if you are to mention any of this night to your mama or your papa, I’ll be coming with my tweezers to pluck out every one of your squirming, little, toes.’
The girls held each other and curled their feet under their gowns. It seemed that Gunnar’s threat had bought his escape. Yet, still the eldest child stirred. It took all her courage. Though his stubby arms and spidery legs made her hair stand on end, she had to question the gremlin’s remarks.
‘But…but Sir Pfefferman.’ She said, ‘You cannot use the door. The Pfefferman cannot come or go like normal people. He always uses the windows.’
Gunnar straightened, looming over the pair. He had gone to so much trouble to earn himself a relaxed morning in Pfefferton and he wasn’t going to drop the charade now. Within the girls’ chambers there was a window, a perk of blue blood, and sitting outside it was a bushy, frost capped pine. He had made many more daring escapes in his career, so a little slide down the pine would be a trifle. Plus, he considered, the bark might even impress upon him a bit of fresh timber cologne on the way down.
‘Of course, child, you know me so well. A bit of a jape, that was.’ Gunnar strolled over to the window and pushed it open with an elbow. ‘Remember children. Not a word.’
Gunnar put a finger to his lips. Then, in two great bounds, he leapt to the window sill, then out into the black night sky. The chill of Yule had frozen all that was outside and untouched by fire that evening, and the frosted sill from which Gunnar sprang was no exception. Of course, our wily thief would not be so remembered if he were to slip so easily, and he found fair purchase on his leap. Rather it was during his impressive arc toward the peak of the pine that fate intervened.
From above, dropping like a wet bag of flour, he was intercepted by the soiled bedding of the Queen’s chambers, seeing as it was too late to call a maid up to have them cleaned. And perhaps were he not so overbalanced with plundered loot, or if the bedding were not seemingly so full, Gunnar may not have been disoriented in the way that he was: upended head below tail with his back cracking into the waiting limbs of the tree whereupon, once received, he was wedged in place firmly in the shape of an inverted cross.
In that moment, the wind was knocked right out of Gunnar’s sails, and the feeling knocked right out of his arms and legs. The brown eyes of his helpers again peered at him from the warmly lit castle, their noses barely reaching over the windowsill. He tried to call out to them, but all he could manage was a strangled gurgling that only served to let the stinging air swim into his lungs. The girls didn’t need to be told of his pitiable situation, however. It was plain enough to see and, while Gunnar was affixed, the pair tore out into the hallway, squealing with glee.
‘We’ve the caught the Pfefferman!’ They shouted. ‘We’ve caught him in our tree!’
They ran from chamber to chamber, alerting every servant to the prize they’d trapped on the second floor. Candlelight flooded the girls’ room and a parade of gawking faces squeezed into the window frame to catch a glimpse of the infamous Gunnar Gundolf in his element. The King, though drowsy, was quick onto the scene, and raised a full alarm to the gatehouse. When the pikemen came to skewer Gunnar free, the moon was still large overhead, and it made the frozen tears that had collected on his forehead glitter like diamonds in the night.
Gunnar’s legend ends here, but the legend of the Pfefferman lives on. To this day we still hang a wooden Pfefferpuppet from the top of our trees in remembrance of this tale. And so now you know, too, that there is a lesson behind it all, one that is well known by those who are caught at night in the town square, shopping amongst the Yule Carts in the moonlight. If you are to venture out in the cold come winter, always be sure to keep your eyes about you, your wallet closed, and never stop to talk to children while your pockets are full of coin.
Ben Hudson Stories 