The Skull: A Tyrolean Folktale

Written and illus. by Jon Klassen

It’s a readerly rite of passage to begin to notice the darker undertones of familiar stories, to prod gently at the edges of uncertainty with the assurance that the book can be closed at any time. Klassen has proved especially good at introducing new, often solo, young readers to the unsettling but intriguing place where fear becomes an essential narrative element, offering enough humor and absurdity to provide comfort on the journey. Such is the case with The Skull, a reimagining of a Tyrolean folktale that shows a young girl’s resolve against unnamed, unexplained threats

The book opens with a menacingly simple statement: “One night, in the middle of the night, while everyone else was asleep, Otilla finally ran away.” Fleeing from an unknown danger, Otilla stumbles through the forest, eventually coming to a large house. Upon knocking, she is greeted by a skull—bodiless—who allows her to stay if she will carry him around (“I am just a skull, and rolling around is difficult for me”). The skull is an affable tour guide as the two wander through the house, eating pears in the garden room, dancing in the ballroom, and visiting the dungeon with its bottomless pit. When dusk comes, the skull asks Otilla to stay to protect him from the headless skeleton that comes to chase him nightly. Sure enough, the headless skeleton does appear, but Otilla goes several steps beyond merely protecting the skull: she pushes the skeleton over a ledge, smashes and burns its bones, and then tosses the ashes down the bottomless pit. It’s a grim act of violence, but it guarantees the skull’s and Otilla’s safety, and when dawn breaks, golden and soft, readers are assured these two wounded souls will now begin the work of healing each other and creating their own happy ending.

Klassen admits in the afterward that his version takes a much darker path than the original iteration, in which the skull turns into a benevolent woman who bestows gifts upon the young child. There is, perhaps, a similar sense of generosity in Otilla’s protective act for the skull, but it’s clear her motivation for getting rid of the skeleton is not just from her desire to save the skull but is also catharsis for her fear and, notably, her rage. Readers never learn what or who is chasing Otilla, but considering she’s willing to stay with a rolling skull in a strange and dangerous house, it must be pretty bad; neither is it revealed what separated the skull from its body and why the skull would like to keep it that way. Of course, it wouldn’t be Klassen without a dash of the absurd. Ottila’s casual acceptance of a talking skull and her willingness to feed him pears (that go right through him to the floor) and hold him just so to dance keeps an irreverent thread running through the mostly solemn tale.

Klassen’s familiar graphite and ink art underscores a sense of malevolence, with ever-present shadows haunting the edges of the pages, threatening to overtake any warm tones, and the harsh angles of shrouded trees and darkened doorways loom over the two friends. Otilla’s eyes are shockingly bright and center each scene, moving subtly but conveying a range of emotion: terror, relief, affection, and a surprising amount of anger, simmering at first and then openly reflected in the flames she uses to burn the skeleton. Her contented expression as she sips tea while watching the fire is both disquieting and satisfying. Meanwhile, round and helpless, the skull nestles comfortably in Otilla’s enveloping arms, clueing readers quickly into their developing dynamic: Otilla has become the guardian and caretaker, providing the protection that it seems was never given to her.

The unknowns of Otilla’s and the skull’s experiences, who they were and where they came from, make a compelling draw for young readers, but that mystery remains unsolved. Instead, the book offers a lesson on the usefulness of fear and likely a reminder of what kids already suspect: the world can be awful and scary, but empathy and friendship can arise from its darkest places.

—Kate Quealy-Gainer, Editor