High-Five to the Hero

  Dear Reader,

  At this year’s Noble Monarch Jubilee, where leaders from fairy tales gathered to meet, it was my pleasure to debut my book Power to the Princess. It was a joy to see a wide audience of fairytale royalty and magical creatures find themselves in the pages of the book, and be inspired by one another’s stories.

  After the jubilee I received notes and messages from readers. I heard from teachers and librarians, kids, and grandparents, and to my great surprise from kings and queens! There were warm words, as well as questions, curiosities, and ideas. One remarkable letter was from four amazing men: King Midas, Pied Piper, Geppetto, and Anasi. Their letter was friendly and congratulatory yet also posed an important question.

  Dear Ms. Murrow,

  We spotted your book right away at the jubilee and after enjoying it ourselves, we selected it for our Dads’ and Kids’ book club. The children were delighted to revisit these familiar stories and see the women in them celebrated as admirable leaders.

  The children now want to read more books like this! So, we went on the hunt for stories of our favorite heroes, princes, and kings.

  But sadly, our collections fell short in this area. And the representation of these well-known characters is quite narrow.

  Please will you write a book that celebrates the beauty and bravery of boys and men in our fairy tales?

  I saw their point. Something was missing from their stories, so I accepted the challenge! Over the next few months, I met with heroes, princes, and kings to listen and learn. Each one told me of their experiences—how they broke the mold, changed the game, or discovered their purpose. Their stories included magic and sword play, hard work, and creativity. Some took a long journey or faced a great challenge. Others told of romance, friendships, or a special passion.

  Each told me of a time they felt vulnerable and how they set their feelings free. About the importance of laughter and surprises and not always being right. All of their stories featured special helpers and mentors who supported them when they stood up for themselves or others, who helped them listen to their instincts.

  I learned so much from these brave and beautiful men. What struck me the most was that the story of what makes a hero, a prince, or a king, is the story of what anyone can be. A hero is courageous of heart and gentle with themselves and others. A king feels deeply, listens actively, and laughs wholly with their community. A prince is a game changer who casts off expectations to fulfil their own purpose. Now that their stories have been retold, I invite you to turn the page and discover these real heroes, princes, and kings.

  Vita Murrow

  Adventures in This Book

  LIST OF HEROES AND THEIR STORIES

  King Arthur

  Tom Thumb

  Hercules

  Sinbad

  The Emperor’s New Clothes

  Pinocchio

  Rumpelstiltskin

  Jack and the Beanstalk

  Quasimodo

  The Snow Man

  Prince Charming

  King Midas

  The Pied Piper

  The Elves and the Shoemaker

  Anansi

  King Arthur

  Once upon a time, on an island kingdom, a baby named Art was born. He was the only child of King and Queen Pendragon, but they were not a happy family. Soon after Art’s birth, his parents separated and his mother moved away. They were not a happy kingdom either—war between the island clans plagued the region. At times arrows soared over the castle wall and battering rams thumped the gates. The king feared for the safety of his son, so baby Art was sent to live at a school called Merlin Hall. There, the staff were sworn to secrecy—told never to mention Art’s lineage to keep him safe.

  Separated from his family, King Pendragon grew despondent. The clan leaders were deeply embroiled in disputes and battles. Not a one listened to another, and no one listened to the king. Woe at work combined with heartbreak brought King Pendragon to an early death. With no heir to lead the kingdom, the country fell into despair.

  Meanwhile, Art grew up at Merlin Hall in the care of warm people, garden-fresh food, music, art, and science. There were studies, outdoors sports, and friends to keep him busy. Yet Art’s childhood wasn’t entirely without sadness. His true parentage remained a mystery to him. No one visited on family day or sent cards or packages at birthdays or holidays. Sometimes Art would look in the mirror and study himself. He’d wonder what combination of people lived within him and who he would become.

  Outside the school gates, the island remained at war. Sometimes the din of nearby battles would spill over into the school grounds and smoke from fires would darken the sky. When this happened, the students would retreat indoors and distract themselves by telling the legend of Merlin Hall.

  The story told of the school’s founding family and namesake, the Merlins. They were gifted oracles who could communicate with animals, command dragons, and bring a winter night’s sky to life with color. The legend foretold that following King Pendragon’s passing, the Merlins melted their magic staffs together with the late king’s sword and sunk a new all-powerful sword into the stone cliffside where the school stood. An inscription on the sword read: “The one who draws this sword from stone, is right wise king of this great isle.” Students scoured the campus with flash lights, but no one had ever found the sword.

  As the years passed, Art’s achievements at Merlin Hall were varied. Teachers noticed he was hard working and engaged. Yet he never raised his hand in class and was often quiet during discussions. He wasn’t nominated to be a prefect, or a team captain when it came to sports. Art seemed rather unremarkable.

  Then, one day during a picnic, a girl sat beside Art. Her face was red and her eyebrows poised like sparring caterpillars. She wiped a tear from her cheek and huffed, “My roommate took my sandwich and I’m furious.” A broken lunchbox littered the ground nearby.

  Art wanted to move away, but instead he did something surprising. He beckoned the girl’s roommate over. “Tell me your side,” he asked each child. Soon Art learned that the children were both worried about not having enough to eat. “Why didn’t you tell someone?” Art asked softly.

  “I’m not used to being listened to,” one of the students confessed.

  At that moment, a light went on in Art’s head. He had always been good at listening. Perhaps this was his thing.

  Art began to notice moments all around him where he could step in and help. When accusations of cheating were flung in a heated ball game, Art ran right into the fray, arms outstretched. “Can we talk about this?” he urged.

  Art’s outreach caught the attention of the headteacher. “I’d like you to head our student leadership council,” she said one day. “You’ll identify student leaders and show them how to be good listeners.”

  Art was astonished. “Why me?” he said. “I’m not anybody important.”

  But the headteacher raised a hand to halt him. “To help, I’ve paired you with a faculty liaison, Mr. Ambrosius.”

  Mr. Ambrosius was an older fellow with a triangular beard who just sort of grunted. For someone meant to help win over the students, Art thought Mr. Ambrosius was an odd choice. He lacked the posture and command that Art assumed a leader needed. That was until their first tutorial, when he saw butterflies and bees spring from Mr. Ambrosius’s hands.

  “Wow!” Art said. “You… you can do magic?”

  “I used to conjure spells,” Mr. Ambrosius said, his eyes glowing. “I helped knights on the battlefield. When they grew weary in battle, I brought a storm of hail upon their opponents. When the skies were filled with smoke and darkness, I summoned wolves to strike fear in the heart of the enemy.”

  Art was rapt. “But why can’t you do th
at again, to stop all the battles?”

  Mr. Ambrosius shook his head. “It was never enough. I learnt that no magic or might can cure discord between people. But don’t be discouraged. There is something that can bring us peace.”

  “What is it?” Art asked, confused.

  Mr. Ambrosius smiled. “I think you know, Art. Talking and listening. Through the student leadership council, we’ll foster students poised to be wise and just rulers. It’s your generation that will unite this land.”

  After that, little by little, week by week, Mr. Ambrosius and Art invited other students to share lessons such as: listening to an enemy, or how not to roll one’s eyes or interrupt like a “know it all.” And they worked together to coach one another on asking for help.

  Mr. Ambrosius and Art invited the most promising students to be part of the student leadership council. They started with Lancelot, Gawain, Geri, and Percival. Then they added Lamorak, Kay, and Gareth who recommended Bedivere, Gaheris, and Galahad. After the mid-year break the group added Tristen and Pamaedes. By then, they had outgrown their small study room and moved to the dining hall, which had a large, round table that better accommodated the growing group. There they met for many months and became known as the Junior Knights of Merlin Hall.

  One day, as the school gathered for dinner, the bells in the Hall’s tower rang without end. It was a signal that battle drew dangerously near and students must take cover. Teachers hurried younger students to safety through underground caves to awaiting boats. Older students worked with staff to fortify the school. Mr. Ambrosius called upon the Junior Knights to stay behind in the dining hall.

  “How about staying to use your new skills?” Mr. Ambrosius said. “I believe you can succeed where others have failed. This isn’t a battle that will be won the old-fashioned way, this will be won with friendship!”

  The Junior Knights looked from one to the other with worry. But Art stood and simply said, “I’m in.”

  The Junior Knights assembled on the roof to get the lay of the land. Beyond the school a great dust roiled, flames shot into the sky, and the glint of metal illuminated the battle which had drawn awfully close. It was loud with screams and shouts, rallying cries and drums, the neighing of horses, and the sound of metal striking metal.

  The Junior Knights decided that during a break in the fighting they would go in pairs and coax leaders from the embattled clans to meet at a neutral place. “The clearing on the cliff ledge,” Art called out. At twilight, his peers emerged from the woods and trails accompanied by battle-weary figures. Art invited each of them to sit cross-legged on the dirt so that everyone was an equal, and to describe their strife. As each leader told their tale, Art and the others listened for shared experiences and ways to help. This is what they heard:

  “They stole our allotment,” one leader accused.

  “We want our forest back,” another leader demanded.

  “We want our logging access,” another protested.

  “We want the spring opened,” a leader pushed.

  “We want the spring dammed,” another pressed back.

  “We want the trade road restored.” Some were now on their feet.

  “We closed the road because it wasn’t safe!” They got in one another’s faces.

  “You ruined our home,” someone sobbed.

  “No, you ruined our home,” another wept.

  No one was sure how an agreement could be reached. But to Art it sounded like the sports disputes he’d mediated at school, and he spoke up. “Tell me about your home, tell me about your clan. What do you love about them?”

  And, like clouds parting after a storm, the leaders began to share.

  “Our land has been home to our family of farmers for generations. There is nowhere more beautiful.”

  “Our village is serene and special, people share with one another and help their friends and neighbors.”

  “Our land has rivers filled with fish, which attract the most majestic birds.”

  “We teach our children to track those birds to show us new paths and trails.”

  And before everyone’s eyes, the leaders began to huddle together. To draw pictures and maps in the dirt with their swords. They pulled items from pouches and showed them proudly. Then someone broke into a smile. Then another. And soon hands were being shook, chests bumped, backs patted with comradery. The Junior Knights took notes, relayed negotiations, and helped draft statements that the leaders could share with their people.

  Mr. Ambrosius took Art aside. “What made you choose this spot for the meeting?” he asked. Art thought long and hard. He paced near the edge of the cliff nervously. “Something drew me here today,” he said.

  “Perhaps you should see why,” Mr. Ambrosius said. He closed his eyes and the earth beneath them began to tremble. A huge crack forked beside Art and large sections of the cliff on either side broke loose, crashing into the sea. All that remained was a small spit upon which Art knelt, and an outlying piece of stone, on which shone the hilt of a mighty sword. The starlight illuminated the pommel like a ship’s beacon. Everyone stared, mouths agape, at the mythic sword in the stone.

  Mr. Ambrosius looked at Art and said gently, “I think you know what to do.”

  Art reached both hands forward, closed his eyes and gripped the hilt of the sword. Within him swirled the strangest concoction of purpose and place, knowing and unknowing, and the sensation of being home. As Art opened his eyes, the sword shot free from the stone, pulling Art’s hands high into the air. And there on the edge of the cliff, surrounded by all the leaders in the land, Art was beheld as the new right wise king of the isle.

  From that day forth, Art was known as King Arthur. Upon graduating from Merlin Hall, he began his work. It was a big job, not to be done alone. So, Art brought in a council of leaders to represent all the different clans in the kingdom. And who did he choose for those all-important roles? None other than his trusted school friends, the Junior Knights. He even had their old table from Merlin Hall put in his study. It was there, at the round table with room enough for all, that they began every gathering with a salute to their mentor and friend, Mr. Ambrosius Merlin.

  Art was beheld as the new right wise king of the isle.

  Tom Thumb

  Once upon a time, on a forested mountain top, there lived a couple of lumberjacks. They worked night and day to buy a small plot of land that no one else wanted. The people in the nearest city thought they were strange and never stopped by or invited them into town. “Mountain people are all a bit odd,” they’d say. “You never know what they are doing up there. It’s not normal to live with only trees for company.”

  The couple were often blamed for things by the villagers for no good reason. When the maple syrup ran out, the villagers blamed the mountain couple. When the stream ran low, they blamed the mountain couple. They would stare at the couple when they made lumber deliveries to the mill with their homemade horse trailer.

  So, the couple got by all on their own with very little. So little in fact that holes went unpatched in their house and, with no market-sellers stopping their way, they often went without fresh food. Though the two wished for a child, they never felt able to have one, for they could scarcely keep a roof over their own heads. But as they worked, unknown to them, some fairies called Forest Sprites scampered nearby. They heard the couple’s wishes and took it upon themselves to grant them.

  One day, the couple returned home after a hard day’s work and were greeted with a staggering surprise. Their home had a shiny new roof and a fresh coat of paint. A new spring ran clear where an old well once stood, and a new wood stove resided at the heart of the cozy home.

  That evening, the couple warmed themselves by the fire and admired their new home improvements. “This will last us well into our old age!” marveled the woman.

  “The smallest changes make all the difference,” said the man as he stoked the fire.

  “Nothing is too small to be meaningful,” said the woman, n
ot knowing how true her words were.

  The couple retired for the night, but were awoken in the wee hours by the sound of humming. They peered apprehensively through their bedroom key hole into the living room. There, leaning against the ottoman, stood a young man, not even tall enough to reach the top of the foot stool cushion.

  The two nearly fell through the door with surprise.

  “Can we help you?” the woman asked.

  “Oh golly no,” said the small guest. “I am here to help you! I was sent by the Forest Sprites.”

  The lumberjacks were overjoyed. They quickly made the young fellow feel welcome. “Do you have a name?” asked the man as he gathered a warm drink in an acorn cap for the young visitor.

  “I do not, perhaps you’d like to give me one?”

  “Shall we name you Tom after my father?” the woman asked.

  Their new charge nodded happily.

  “Why, you’re not much bigger than the thumb of a grizzly!” noted the man. “How about we call you Tom Thumb?” And the three sealed it with a hug.

  As the years passed, Tom and his new family grew in closeness and comfort. Tom worked hard to learn every bit of the family trade. Even though he was an unusual size, he was skilled and thoughtful. He patiently took in his mother’s instructions for felling trees, pruning, and climbing, as well as his father’s techniques for measuring, coring, sampling, and tapping. After pondering a task, he would come up with a clever accommodation to allow him to perform just as a full-size person would.

  When it came to riding horses, Tom made an amazing discovery. He set up a washboard at the horse’s flank, scaled his way to the horse’s mane, and pulled himself aboard. Instead of using reins, he hopped on to the horse’s head and spoke directly in its ear. Before his parents’ eyes the horse trotted around in a little parade.

  “Now I can take wood to town!” he proclaimed proudly.