The Fisherman and His Wife

Right by the sea, on a bare stretch of shore, there lived a fisherman and his wife Ilsebill. Their hut was crooked and cramped, with one narrow little window and a roof patched over and over again. The neighbours even had a name for it: the Jug.

Every morning the fisherman took his fishing rod, went down to the shore, sat on a rock and gazed at the water.

One day he sat and sat, and then suddenly, tug! The line went tight, and the rod bent like a bow. The fisherman pulled and pulled, and onto the sand came an enormous flounder: flat, spotted, with both its eyes on one side.

"Let me go, fisherman," the flounder said suddenly, in a human voice. "I’m no ordinary fish, I’m an enchanted prince. What good am I to you? I don’t even taste nice."

The fisherman was so startled he dropped his cap.

"There, there, that’s enough," he said, waving his hands. "A fish that can talk? I’d have let you go anyway. Off you swim."

He gently picked up the flounder in both hands and lowered it into a wave. The flounder flicked its tail (splash!) and dived to the bottom, leaving a silver trail on the water.

The fisherman came home empty-handed.

"Didn’t you catch anything?" asked Ilsebill.

"I caught a flounder," he said. "Only it started talking. Said it was an enchanted prince. So I let it go."

"And you didn’t ask it for anything?!" cried Ilsebill, throwing up her hands.

"What would I ask for?"

"What would you ask for? Look where we live! In the Jug! There’s no room to turn around in here. Go back and ask for a proper house."

The fisherman didn’t want to. But he didn’t like arguing with his wife. So off he went.

The sea wasn’t the same as in the morning: it was greenish, with yellow glints. The fisherman stood at the water’s edge and called out:

"Flounder, flounder, rise from the sea! My wife has sent me back to thee. My Ilsebill wants things against my will."

Splash! The flounder popped up out of the waves.

"Well, what does she want?"

"Well," the fisherman mumbled, "she says I should have asked you for something. She doesn’t want to live in the Jug any more. She wants a little house."

"Go home," said the flounder. "She has it already."

The fisherman came home, and where the Jug had stood there was a neat white cottage with a red-tiled roof and a little porch. Inside were a parlour, a pantry and a kitchen with copper pans shining on the wall. And behind the cottage was a little garden: apple trees, hens, ducks.

"Isn’t it lovely?" said Ilsebill with a smile.

"Lovely," the fisherman agreed. "Now we’ll live well."

"We’ll see," she said.

A week went by, maybe two. Then one morning Ilsebill said:

"It’s cramped in here. And the garden’s tiny. The flounder could give us a castle. A stone one, with towers. Go and ask."

"Wife, this cottage is plenty for us! It isn’t right to go back again."

"Go on, go on. It’s nothing to her."

The fisherman’s heart was heavy, and his feet would hardly carry him. The sea had turned dark blue, almost purple, and it no longer sparkled. Though it was still calm.

"Flounder, flounder, rise from the sea! My wife has sent me back to thee. My Ilsebill wants things against my will."

"Well, what does she want?" asked the flounder.

"Oh," sighed the fisherman. "She wants a castle."

"Go. She’s standing at the gate already."

And so she was: where the white cottage had been, a tall stone castle now rose up. The gate opened all by itself: creeeak! In the halls, mirrors and crystal chandeliers glittered, servants bowed, roast meat steamed on the tables, and there was a smell of fresh pies. And behind the castle were a park and a stable full of horses.

"Well?" asked Ilsebill.

"Well... it’s lovely," said the fisherman, tiptoeing so as not to leave footprints on the carpets. "Now that really is enough."

"We’ll think about it," said Ilsebill.

Next morning she woke up first and looked out of the window. All around, as far as the eye could see, lay fields, forests and villages.

"Husband, get up! See how much land there is? I want to be queen over all of it."

"But what for? I don’t want to be king."

"Then don’t be. But I want to be queen. Go."

The fisherman went. The sea had turned grey and murky, the waves rolled heavily, and they smelled of rotting seaweed.

"Flounder, flounder, rise from the sea! My wife has sent me back to thee. My Ilsebill wants things against my will."

"Well, what does she want?"

"She wants to be queen," the fisherman said, barely above a whisper.

"Go. She’s queen already."

The castle had grown twice as big. Flags fluttered on the towers, and trumpeters stood at the gate: tan-ta-ra! And Ilsebill sat on a high golden throne, wearing a diamond crown.

"There," said the fisherman. "Now you’re queen. Now you don’t want anything else, do you?"

Ilsebill drummed her fingers on the arm of the throne: tap, tap, tap.

"It’s boring. There are lots of kings in the world. I want to be empress, so that all the kings bow down to me."

"Wife! There’s only one empress in the whole world. The flounder can’t do that."

"I’m the queen and you’re my husband. Go at once!"

Now the sea was black and thick, like tar. The wind tore at the fisherman’s cap, and the waves hissed under their white crests. The fisherman’s voice was shaking.

"Flounder, flounder, rise from the sea! My wife has sent me back to thee. My Ilsebill wants things against my will."

"Well, what does she want?"

"She wants to be empress."

"Go. She’s empress already."

This time the throne was as tall as a bell tower, and the crown was so big that Ilsebill could barely hold her head straight. Kings and princes bowed before her. The fisherman had to tip his head back so far that his neck ached.

"Well, wife, now you’re empress. Now is it enough?"

"We’ll see."

That night Ilsebill didn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, wondering what else she could wish for. And just before dawn she saw the sun slowly rising outside the window.

"Aha!" She sat bolt upright. "It’s rising, and it didn’t even ask me! Husband! I want the sun and the moon to rise when I tell them to!"

The fisherman was so frightened he fell out of bed: thump!

"Wife, come to your senses! Even the flounder can’t do that!"

"And I can’t sit here watching the sun rise without my permission! Go!"

Outside, a storm was raging. Trees bent to the ground, rocks came tumbling down the mountains, and lightning crackled across the black sky. The waves rose up like mountains, with white foam boiling on their tops. The fisherman shouted with all his might, but he couldn’t hear his own voice:

"Flounder, flounder, rise from the sea! My wife has sent me back to thee. My Ilsebill wants things against my will."

Out of the black water rose the flounder.

"Well, what does she want now?"

"She wants..." The fisherman lowered his eyes. "She wants the sun and the moon to rise at her command."

The flounder was silent for a long time. Then it said:

"Go home. She’s sitting in her Jug again."

Splash! And it dived to the bottom. The fisherman never saw it again.

The storm died down just as suddenly as it had begun. The fisherman trudged home. There was no castle, no towers, no trumpeters, no white cottage, no garden with apple trees. Only the crooked hut with its one narrow little window and its patched roof.

On the bench by the table sat Ilsebill, in her old patched skirt, without a crown. She was looking at her hands and saying nothing.

"Well, there we are," the fisherman said quietly, and sat down beside her.

Ilsebill didn’t answer.

And through the narrow little window, the morning sun peeped into the Jug. It had risen all by itself, the way it rose every morning, and it hadn’t asked anyone’s permission.