Once upon a time, in the northwest corner of the Okefenokee Swamp, a woman lived in a tiny one room wooden shack with her teenage son, Johnny. Her husband had deserted them long ago and, though she worked very hard, her son was lazy and they were very poor.

In fact, the only thing of value that they still owned was an old fiddle that Jonny's father had left behind.

"If only Jack would've given us a golden egg," the boy lamented, thinking about his cousin as the notes of his sad song filled the house.

"Don't go blaming others for what you don't have," his mother lectured, pausing her broom in mid-stroke; "I'm mighty proud of my sister and her boy for getting themselves out of poverty like that." Nodding at the old fiddle, she continued, "It's best not to be playing that anymore; it won't be yours much longer. I want you to trade it tomorrow. The neighbors just slaughtered their steer and their little girl want to learn how to play. I think it's a great deal—we need food more than we need music."

"What?" Johnny came to his feet shouting, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened on the neck of his instrument, "You can't do that! It's daddy's fiddle, not yours! He gave it to me! It's mine! He taught me to play it!"

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, boy," she snapped, "your father hasn't been seen in these parts for a long time so I think I'm entitled to do what I want with the trash that he left behind. Of course," she huffed loudly, making sure that he was listening, "If my boy was as industrious as his cousin then maybe we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Are you kidding?" he hurled his words at her, "Jack didn't do anything more than bring some beans home. He didn't even plant them. They got lucky, that's all. Besides" he added, "you'll see; one day this fiddle will save us. People in town say that I'm the best that's ever been—and I believe them."

She cracked, "What town, boy? You can't mean those three houses up yonder over the hill? The nearest town is over an hour away and you've never even been there."

He scowled, returning the conversation to his cousin's newly acquired wealth, "I thought you told me not to blame others for what I don't have."

"I wasn't blaming them," she insisted, "I was trying to motivate you to get off your lazy behind and help me the way that your cousin helped his mother."

She nodded at the fiddle once more, "Get your head out of the clouds, boy, and do some work around here."

But he only rolled his eyes and turned away as she resumed her sweeping.


Hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, Johnny awoke with a start.

Glancing over to see his mother sleeping peacefully, he sighed and tossed his dirty blanket aside. If there was one thing that he wanted to do more than anything else right now, it was to play his fiddle.

Silently, he stole away into the night. The moon was full and bright over the swamp and he could see as clear as day as he dashed down an old trail that led away from their house.

The usual night sounds arose around him: frogs croaking, cicadas chirping, owls hooting, and occasionally the scream of a raccoon or two. Johnny eyes habitually roamed over the trail as he ducked around palmetto bushes and under old oak trees with Spanish moss draped heavily over their branches, unconsciously on the lookout for a hidden alligator or a poisonous snake.

But the only thing his mind could hear was the sweet sound of his bow sliding over the strings.

Crossing a rickety old pole bridge, his bare feet sank into the mud and he knew that he was far enough away from the house to put on his grand finale.

And what a show it was; he threw everything he had into it, whirling, twisting, twirling, and leaping into the air, lost in the ecstasy of his music.

Then, suddenly, he heard a voice from behind that made his blood curdle.

"Boy!"

He skidded to a stop and turned slowly, every hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

"Boy!"

A hissing stream floated across the trail, obscuring his vision for a minute, but when it cleared Johnny saw the terrible burning red eyes. Then he saw the silhouette and knew exactly who it was.

The Devil was muscular but slim and inhumanly tall. His posture was regal, like a master who knew every detail of his craft. His expression was arrogant, cruel, and hungry.

Johnny stood unflinching, his face set with determination and contempt. Whatever the Devil wanted, he wasn't going to get it from him!

Chuckling at teenager's reaction, the fallen angel clapped slowly then drummed his long boney fingers together.

"That's a good show, boy. You put on a good show, but now listen to what I have to say."

"You see," he went on, "I'm running low on souls this month so I've come up in search of someone and I couldn't help but overhear you play. Now, as I said, you're pretty good, but you must give me my due because, even though I'm sure that you didn't know it, I'm a fiddle player too."

"Now, if you care to take a dare," the Mater Demon grinned, "I'll make a bet with you." He pulled a small black case out from behind his back and opened the lid, showing Johnny what was inside, "How about this fiddle of gold against your soul, because I think I'm better than you?"

Johnny did his best to look unimpressed, but the truth was that he knew that golden fiddle would save his mother and himself from a life of poverty, just like the golden eggs and the golden harp had done for his cousin. Then a flash of contempt rose up in his chest as he recalled what the Devil had said.

"Well, Devil, my name is Johnny," he introduced himself, "and it might be a sin, but I'll take your bet and you're gonna regret it because I'm the best that's ever been."

The Devil smiled with pleasure and ungraciously clapped his hands again, this prideful boy would be the perfect addition to his collection.

"Then allow me to start this show."

Sparks flew from his fingertips as he prepared to play and as his bow touched the strings the instrument made an evil sounding hiss.

"Johnny rosin up your bow and play your fiddle hard," band of demons mocked, suddenly joining their leader, "because Hell's broke loose in Georgia and the Devil deals the cards. And if you win you'll get this shiny fiddle made of gold, but if you lose the Devil gets your soul!"

When he'd finished a gleam of triumph burned in the Devil's cold eyes but Johnny only pointed at an old rotten stump, "Well, you're pretty good ole son, but why don't you just sit down right there so I can show you how it's done."

"Fire on the mountain, run boys, run," he sang, as he played and danced to his favorite song like never before, "The Devil's in the house of the rising son. Chicken in the bread pan a picking out dough. Granny does your dog bit? No, child, no."

He spun, whirled, and leapt as if he was dancing through the air and when he finished, he smiled and said, "Now, Devil, I wonder if you've got more than that?"

The Devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat and he laid the golden fiddle down at Johnny's feet.

"Devil," the boy continued, the venom returning to his voice, "You can come on back if you ever want to try again because, remember what I said, I'm the beat that's ever been."

Then he picked up his new fiddle and went home.


Author's Notes: Just as a word of warning, the song as a tiny bit of wording that some might find offensive so don't have a cow and complain to me if and when you listen to it in conjunction with what I've written. Heck, don't complain to me even if you don't have a cow about it. I didn't write the song.

I know it's rough and a little dorky, but I hope to get better. I already have ideas for two more fairytale stories which will allow me more creative license and thus, I hope, read more fluidly. Please Read and Review this one though!