Chapter Text
Session 6, Elim Garak's quarters, Deep Space Nine.
JB: - very good with lots of parmesan cheese. Oh, good, that seems to have fixed it. All right. I hope you're prepared to be particularly delighted this evening. Guess what I've got for you?
EG: I couldn't begin to.
JB: A vocationally appropriate fairy tale. I was browsing through a table of contents and it just leapt out at me. Wonderful serendipity.
EG: It's not, by any chance, anything to do with a spy?
JB: Nothing of the sort. I know better than that. No, this story is called 'The Valiant Little Tailor.'
EG: Hmm.
JB: It's got giants in it, too.
EG: Will I be called upon to provide sound effects?
JB: I don't think so, but you know, if you feel inspired, just jump in. I welcome your contributions. Shall I begin?
EG: I think you may as well.
JB: Right! Once upon a time, a little tailor was sitting on his worktable, by the window, plying his needle.
EG: Had he no chair?
JB: Actually, I wondered about that too, so I looked it up and apparently in those days, tailors were known for sitting on tables, not chairs, cross-legged like this.
EG: They must have been flexible.
JB: So he was stitching away at something or other, when he heard a voice from outside, a peddler crying her wares: 'Good jam, cheap! Good jam, cheap!' And before you say anything, the jam was not poison.
EG: You wound me. Go on.
JB: So the tailor popped his head out of the window - actually, the translation from the German that I found specifically said his delicate head - and called her in. There was some quibbling about the jam in archaic units of measurement, and I don't think the tailor bought very much, and the woman went off in something of a huff. But no, she did not return the next day with poisoned jam. Her part of the story is over. Some people are like that; they just have bit parts in the great drama of life. The tailor was very pleased with his purchase, and got out his loaf of bread, cut a big slice and spread it lavishly. 'But,' he said to himself, 'I'll just finish this job first; that way I'll enjoy it more.'
EG: Much as I might tell myself I had better finish the job in hand before I reward myself by meeting you for lunch.
JB: Well, thank you. I'm a bit like jam, am I?
EG: Actually, I think honey would be a better analogy.
JB: Um, well, I suppose that's right, since I'm not red and don't have pips. So the tailor sat on his table stitching away, admittedly, with increasingly large stitches as the lovely smell of the jammy bread reached him. He wasn't the only one who noticed it. Flies buzzed into the room and made - inappropriately, I have to say a beeline for the jam. The tailor snapped 'Who invited you?' and waved them away. Unfortunately, the flies did not speak German - I'm sorry, that's what it says in the original text, they did not speak German - just kept coming back, and he, losing patience, reached under the table for a spare piece of cloth which he sort of cracked into the cloud of flies like a whip. Most of the flies buzzed off, and the tailor was impressed to see that he had killed seven flies with that one mighty swat. He was so impressed that he ate his bread-and-jam to celebrate, even though he hadn't finished his job. In fact, he was so impressed with himself that once he had licked his fingers and dusted off the crumbs, he put that project on one side and made for himself what the book said was a girdle, which confused me a bit because I thought that was a sort of... ladies' underthing.
EG: Nowadays, yes, that's generally what it means, but at one stage it could be almost anything worn around the waist, a sash or a belt.
JB: Thank you - I knew you would know. That makes much more sense, because he embroidered on this girdle 'Seven at one blow!' and put it on and paraded around town in it, and nobody reacted as if he were prancing about in ladies' underthings. The tailor decided that it just wasn't fair to share his awesome deed with only one town, so he took his show on the road and set out to seek his fortune. Before leaving, he had a look around to see if he had anything worth packing, but as he'd finished the bread and jam there was nothing much except a cheese, which he wrapped up and put in his pocket. The next bit is a touch confusing too, because as he went out the door, he noticed a bird trapped in a thicket, and he put that in his pocket too. The bird, I mean. He took it out of the thicket and into his pocket.
EG: Where it pecked him in delicate places?
JB: Not that we're told.
EG: Had he any particular plan for the bird?
JB: Not that we're told.
EG: So with pockets full of cheese and live wildfowl, he set out into the world.
JB: I'm glad you're keeping up. Off he went, and the road zigged and zagged higher and higher until it came to the top of a mountain, where a giant was sitting and looking at the view.
EG: So giants weren't confined to strange realms above the clouds. Unless this one has climbed down a beanstalk?
JB: Could be! Anyway, the tailor went up to the giant, with perfect confidence, and said 'Good day, comrade! I see you're looking at the wide world. I happen to be going there. Would you like to travel together?' Whereupon the giant called him a ragamuffin and a miserable creature.
EG: A tailor, a ragamuffin? I try always to be the best possible advertisement for my own trade.
JB: You are. I'm sure no giant would dare be rude to you. Perhaps this one just had a bad attitude. The tailor said, in essence, 'Oh yeah?' and opened his coat to display the girdle: 'Seven at one blow.' Now the giant, deprived of context, assumed the tailor was boasting of having slain seven men at one blow. He was impressed despite himself, but he thought he should test the tailor, since it might just be a hollow boast. So he picked up a great stone that lay nearby and crushed it in his hands until water dripped out of it. 'Can you do that?' he asked. 'Is that all?' asked the tailor. He pulled the cheese out of his pocket and squished it in his hand so that the whey - it's a sort of runny cheesy by-product - dripped out of it. 'Not bad, eh?'
EG: I see.
JB: So! The giant was astonished, and got a bit competitive. He picked up another rock and threw it so far you had to squint to see where it landed. 'Beat that!' he snorted. 'Good throw,' said the tailor, 'but it did, after all, drop back to earth. I'll throw you one that doesn't.' He reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the bird he happened to have picked up earlier, and threw it into the air; the bird, of course, lost no time in flying off at top speed. The giant, being, I suppose, rather short-sighted, accepted this at face value. 'Well,' he harrumphed, 'you can throw, but let's see if you can carry a weight.' He indicated a mighty oak tree which he had felled and said 'If you're strong enough, help me carry that tree out of the forest.'
EG: No, wait. That doesn't make sense. They were at the top of a mountain. If there were a forest growing over the top of it, how could the giant be looking at the view?
JB: He might be taller than the trees.
EG: Then how would the little tailor have known what he was looking at? A-ha! I have you there.
JB: All right then, the giant felled the oak somewhere else and brought it up the mountain with him. It's on his way. Well, the little tailor said 'Gladly! I tell you what - you pick up the trunk, and I'll carry the bushy end, which is where all the real weight is.' So the giant hoisted up the trunk and shouldered it, little knowing that he was actually bearing all the weight, and the tailor clambered into the branches and rode there, occasionally whistling or making comments about what a jolly good tree this was to allay the giant's suspicions. The giant couldn't turn around and look at him, you see, not with the trunk on his shoulder like that. The giant trudged on for some time, until he was exhausted and had to put 'his end' of the tree down. As he turned around, rubbing his sore, sweaty shoulder, he found the tailor standing there holding the branches of the tree as if he had been carrying it, looking quite chirpy and unruffled, and saying 'Gosh, a big chap like you, and you couldn't even carry that tree!'
EG: Has the tailor any particular motive for going along with the giant's obsession with feats of strength?
JB: Beats me. I think he's just having fun. So they went along together -
EG: What about the tree?
JB: They ditched it.
EG: What was the giant dragging it around for up to then?
JB: You've got me. I have no idea.
EG: This story is like one of those long, odd dreams that I have when I'm overtired.
JB: Anyway, the giant and the tailor walked on, until they came to a cherry tree all covered with delicious ripe fruit. The giant, noting that the best cherries were growing on the highest branches, took hold of the top of the tree and considerately bent it down to the tailor's level, inviting him to eat. 'Thanks,' said the tailor, taking hold of a branch to pick from it, and of course the giant, believing the tailor stronger than himself, let go, and twang, the tree sprang back up and sent the tailor flying, up and over like this, aaaaaaaahwoohoohooey.
EG: Woohoohooey?
JB: Very traditional cry of someone being comically flung through the air. Luckily, he landed without being hurt. The giant frowned at him. 'What's this?' he asked. 'Aren't you strong enough to hold down a little twig like that?' 'That was no lack of strength,' said the tailor. 'You're talking to Mr Seven At One Blow. I just felt like showing you how high I can jump. See if you can match it.' The giant tried, but didn't quite clear the hurdle - he got stuck, and in his struggles to get down knocked down plenty of cherries so the tailor could eat as many as he liked.
'Gosh,' said the giant, 'you're quite a valiant fellow. Do you want to come and stay at the Secret Giants' Clubhouse?' Which was a big cave nearby.
EG: I suspect you of embroidering this story.
JB: I am. I've already changed two bits that just didn't make any sense to me. The stuff I've left in is the more sensible material. I'll admit I called it a secret clubhouse just for fun. Evidently these giants didn't have a cloud castle, they just had a big cave, and they were all sitting around a fire eating whole roast sheep with terrible table manners. 'Not bad,' said the tailor. 'It's bigger than my workshop.' The giant showed him to a bed, which was, of course, a giant-sized bed, and left him to go to sleep. Well, the bed was so big that the tailor was afraid he'd get lost in it, or suffocate under the blanket or the pillow, so he just crawled into one upper corner and went to sleep there. Now I am sorry to tell you that the giant was not a nice person. You may have thought from the cherry-sharing incident that he'd become the tailor's friend, but actually he was very irritated by him being so small but better than him at everything, and was planning to bump him off.
EG: I'm shocked. Someone in a fairy-tale plans to murder someone else. It's unheard of.
JB: I know. Well, he waited until midnight, when he thought the tailor would be sound asleep, and he picked up a great long iron bar, and standing at the foot of the bed, slammed the bar right down the middle of it. WHUMP! it went. 'That must have killed the little grasshopper,' thought the giant, and went off to bed himself - of course, the tailor being in one corner wasn't hurt at all. The next morning the giants were getting ready to go out when the tailor appeared, quite intact, asking whether there were any breakfast left. So they all ran off in terror because they thought he was immortal. And the tailor just went on with his journey as if nothing much had happened.
EG: As one does.
JB: Exactly! So after walking for quite a long time, he came to a great palace, whose courtyard was open to the public. He walked in, and since he was quite tired, found a comfortable corner, lay down and took a nap. Other people, that is, people who had some business being there, gathered around him to have a look, and read the boast on his girdle, 'Seven at one blow.' Just like the giant, they took this to mean seven men, seven foes, and they thought he must be a mighty warrior despite his delicate appearance. Their kingdom had been at peace a long time, but knowing that nothing lasts forever, they recommended to the king that he take this powerhouse into his service. When the tailor woke up, he found the Lord Chamberlain beside him offering him a job. 'That's exactly why I came here,' said the tailor smoothly. 'Of course I accept.'
EG: I'm troubled by an inconsistency in the tailor's character.
JB: Do tell.
EG: Well, his intention to save the bread and jam until after he finished whatever he was sewing suggests a man who thinks ahead, who plans, who defers gratification for sensible reasons. Yet ever since the fly-killing incident he's been going blithely along without the least thought of the likely consequences of any of his actions.
JB: I suppose it was a transformative experience.
EG: I don't claim to be any sort of textbook example of a tailor, but let me tell you, doctor, I always have a plan. In fact I have several. I have Plan A, and Plan B, of course. These you might liken to complete outfits. But what really makes the difference, and you might profit by making a note of it, is my repertoire of plan components, like separates which can be mixed and matched in various combinations, greatly increasing the versatility of one's 'wardrobe.' In this way, one can be assured of being appropriately 'dressed' for any occasion. 'How did you know that would happen? How were you prepared for it?' people may ask. The true answer, which of course for the sake of your reputation you must never give, is that you had no idea, but were equipped with all those separates that you knew would co-ordinate and could be layered as necessary.
JB: That's very interesting.
EG: And not, perhaps, something that a person who wears a uniform every day is attuned to thinking of. But you were saying that the tailor has accepted the king's offer.
JB: Oh. Yes, well, so he did. But trouble soon brewed. Frankly, he made the other soldiers nervous. They were afraid to be around him lest he lose his temper and lay about him, slaughtering seven of them with every blow. This was not what they'd had in mind when they enlisted. So they went to the king and asked him to dismiss them, saying that they were simply too afraid to serve with Mr Seven At One Blow. The king didn't want to lose such a large number of men of proven loyalty and courage. He was too afraid of the tailor just to ask him to leave, so he came up with a cunning plan. He summoned him to his throne room, and offered him a challenge: to rid the kingdom of two troublesome giants who were a constant threat to life and liberty in the forest they had taken over as their territory. Surely, the king thought, the two giants between them would defeat the tailor and he wouldn't have to deal with him any more. To sweeten the deal, he promised the tailor that if he succeeded, he would receive the king's daughter as his bride and half the kingdom as her dowry, and he would send a hundred horsemen with him to help him deal with the giants.
EG: Wait. The king doesn't want to lose his proven soldiers, but he's willing to send a hundred horsemen on, essentially, a suicide mission?
JB: Am I telling this story, or are you?
EG: You are, doctor.
JB: And do you want to hear what happens to this tailor, or don't you?
EG: I'll be good.
JB: Just as well. The tailor was very impressed by the offer of a princess and a half-kingdom, so he accepted, saying airily that he didn't expect to need the help of the hundred horsemen, since a man who could fell seven at one blow shouldn't have much trouble with two.
EG: But the tailor knows he - wait - oh, bother.
JB: I know. Just try to relax and go along with it. So the next day he set out, with the hundred horsemen following him. When they neared the forest, he turned around and told them 'Just wait here for me. I'll go and deal with these giants.' So he hitched up his pants and strode boldly into the forest. After some wandering around, he came to a clearing where the two giants were sleeping, curled up in the shade of a great tree.
EG: How sweet.
JB: They're bad giants, though. Remember they've been killing people and generally making a nuisance of themselves. The tailor hunted around until he had found enough small stones to fill his pockets, and carefully, quietly climbed up in to the branches of that great tree overhanging the giants' napping spot. Squatting there, he began dropping stones on the chest of one of the giants. After a few thumps on his chest, the giant gave the other a shove, and said 'Why are you tapping on my chest?' 'I'm not,' said the other, irritably. 'You must be dreaming. Go back to sleep.' Neither of them noticed the tailor. He waited a bit until they had both settled down again and were sleeping soundly, then took aim and started stone-bombing the second giant. He woke up and crossly asked his friend what he thought he was playing at. 'I'm not doing anything,' said the first giant. 'You started it.' 'I did not,' said giant number two, and they bickered about it for some time before growing too weary to continue and settling back to sleep. The tailor fetched out the heaviest stone, which he had saved for last, and flung it down onto the chest of the first giant. 'That's it!' he roared, springing up and fetching his companion a thump. Well, giant number two retaliated, and while the tailor clung to the branches of the tree like a squirrel, an enormous giant fight ensued in the clearing below him. They punched and bit and kicked, and tore up trees by their roots to clout each other with, until finally, each of them got it into his head to strike the final blow. After a simultaneous headbutt that echoed for miles, both giants fell down dead.
EG: You know, there's a story very like that in Cardassian mythology.
JB: And in lots of Human mythologies too - the most famous is the story of Cadmus and the dragon's teeth. Perhaps the tailor was familiar with that one. He hopped down from the tree, and after assuring himself that both giants were quite dead, drew his sword and stuck it into each of them a couple of times, for the look of the thing. Then he swaggered back out of the forest to where the hundred horsemen were still waiting, looking a bit nervous after the noises of the giant combat. 'Well!' he said casually, 'that wasn't easy! They put up a bit of a fight. Still, no big deal to a man who kills seven at one blow.' He invited the astonished horsemen to come and see the aftermath - two dead giants, indeed. So, carrying the giants' heads as proof for the king, they returned in triumph to the palace.
EG: I'm getting the impression that, as far as Human fairy-tales are concerned, you can do whatever you like to a giant.
JB: They're pretty much just one-dimensional monsters, yes. Fair game. So! The king was, of course, very flustered. He was pleased to be rid of the giants, who had been very destructive, but he'd never intended to have to give the tailor the reward he'd so lavishly promised. After all, he liked his kingdom the size it was, and he'd much rather marry his daughter to a neighbouring king or prince to form a strategic alliance. So he backpedalled, and told the tailor that before he could have his princess, he'd have to pass one more test: to capture a wild unicorn. Now the book says it was a bad unicorn too, but I don't believe that for a minute, and nor would Molly O'Brien. Ask any little girl: unicorns can be dangerous if they're frightened, but they're fundamentally good magic.
EG: What is a unicorn? I've heard of a eunuch...
JB: No, nothing like that. A unicorn is... it's sort of like a white horse, only more light and slender and graceful, perhaps a bit more like a deer or an antelope, and it has a long tail with a tuft at the end instead of a ponytail. And growing from its forehead is a long, spiral horn, which is the really magic bit. An alicorn - unicorn horn - is a universal antidote to poisons. Generally unicorns can only be captured by maidens. And little girls love them. To a perplexing extent. Oh, and I should mention that they're completely mythical. Sometimes, of course, a normally two-horned animal has only one horn as a result of some accident or mutation, and there were some experiments in the twentieth century, efforts to breed a unicorn. Selective breeding, eugenics, genetic engineering - there was a bit of a mania for them in that century. A Dr Dove succeeded in surgically creating unicorn cows, if you can picture that.
EG: What for?
JB: The fact that you even have to ask that is illustrative of the philosophical gulf between our cultures.
EG: You don't know either.
JB: Be that as it may, the valiant little tailor had to go and catch this unicorn, all right? All right. 'All right,' he said, 'but only one unicorn? Hmph. Bit disappointing when you're the type to get Seven At One Blow.' He equipped himself with an axe and a rope, and went into the forest - I think it was a different forest, but there's seldom any shortage of forests in fairy-tales - where the unicorn dwelt. When the unicorn saw him, it charged towards him, its head lowered and its one sharp horn levelled straight at his heart. The tailor stood stock-still in front of a tree - until the very last second, when he sprang aside and the unicorn buried its horn in the treetrunk. And it stuck fast. The tailor let the unicorn struggle for a bit until it was worn out, then haltered it with the rope, chopped away the wood around its horn, and led it back to the palace. All rather anticlimactic, really. The king's position was getting a bit untenable now, although he was pretty chuffed to own a real live unicorn, and he desperately declared that the tailor must perform one last feat before he would be allowed to marry the princess. So... you know what, it's actually getting a bit boring now, so suffice to say the next task was to catch a wild boar, and the tailor tricked it into running into a chapel, he jumped out the window, ran around and shut the door so the pig was trapped.
EG: You're not supposed to do that. As storyteller, it's your duty to enchant me with words, not to admit it's getting boring and give me a précis.
JB: So the tailor married the princess and gained half a kingdom. Not bad, eh?
EG: And is that it? The end? This isn't up to your usual standard.
JB: There's another bit, where his wife hears him talking in his sleep and realises he's just a tailor and tries to get rid of him, but she doesn't even try anything interesting like a poisoned apple. And he just gets out of it by reminding everyone of his feats so they run away in terror. And he lives happily ever after.
EG: With a wife who doesn't want him? Or does she run away too?
JB: I think just some henchmen do. I'm sorry. I've let you down, haven't I?
EG: You've done nothing of the sort. The tailor has let me down. He's let all tailors down with his silly behaviour, inconsistent characterisation and lack of psychological depth. I won't let you blame yourself for his failings. I think you just need to be a little more careful in your selection of the next tale. Something with a stronger narrative structure and a genuine climax. Even sound effects.
JB: I'll do my best. Do you think it had a moral?
EG: Don't correct people who misjudge you; with just a little guidance on your part they will make you out to be far more impressive than you actually are, and you can coast on your fearsome reputation for years.
JB: That's pretty good, to be honest. Though it helps if you have unexpected competence in such fields as unicorn wrangling.