#new fairy tales
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
I’m sorry about the long absence - my chronic health issues flared up badly, and other things piled on top of that. Chronic pain is a real creativity-killer, and not being able to sit at a computer for more than 20 minutes doesn’t help either.
This story is a result of going to see Shang Chi, which is a fantastic movie and a beautiful paean to momentum - physical, emotional, literary and narrative. Poetry in motion is a phrase often used, but never more richly deserved. It also reminded me of a very old trope that I haven’t addressed - the Secret Sanctuary, where the Ancient Way is taught or the Ancient Artifact is guarded or the Doorway To The Dead Realms lies or whatever. It’s always hidden, usually in the mountains. (Hogwarts qualifies as a subversion of this trope)
So… what if the person who showed up was looking for something else entirely, or was, at least, open to reason?
#
There were once three great warriors, and no one who stood against them ever defeated them. They rose to lead a great army, and at last that army reached the sea, and there was nothing left for them to conquer.
The first looked back at the land they had conquered, and said “This is enough. I desire no more.”
The second looked at the trees that grew near the beach, and said “I will not stop here. I will build a great boat, and find new lands.”
But the third warrior looked at both the sea and the land, and then turned away. “I am weary of fighting,” she said. “I will go another way.” And she walked away, down the beach, and did not heed their calls after her.
She walked, following the water’s edge. The sea led her to an inlet, the inlet to a river, the river to a stream, and at last she found herself in a place she did not know, which she and her comrades had never conquered. It was a peaceful valley, lush and green, and the people who lived there came out to meet her.
“What is this place?” she asked them.
“This is the Valley of Flowers,” they told her. “Few find their way here, for it is a secret place. What were you seeking, that you came here?”
“I sought something new,” she said, looking around her with interest. “I was weary of fighting, and wished to do something else. What do you do here?”
“We farm,” they told her.
So for three years, she joined in the toil of farming, from planting to tending to harvest. She herded beasts, and fed them, and was at peace.
At the end of the three years, she went to the head of the village, who was very old and wise, and said “I am not a farmer. This is not the right work for me. What else do you do here?”
“We make,” the village head told her. “Try making.”
So for seven years she made. She learned to spin, and weave, and sew. She learned to tan leather and make shoes and other things from it. She learned to craft wood, and clay, and metal. She built, and mended, and shaped.
At the end of the seven years, she went to the head of the village again. “I have learned all the crafts of making that are practiced in this valley,” she said. “I am not very good at any of them. They are not what I am looking for. What else do you do in this valley?”
The head of the village sat and looked at her for a long time, and the warrior sat and looked back, without anger or impatience. At last he nodded slowly. “It is not a thing we would ever speak of to an outsider, in the way of things,” he said slowly, “but you have lived among us for ten years in peace, and have never once spoken falsely that we know of. So I will ask you, do you desire wealth?”
She shrugged. “I had wealth. The wealth of a hundred conquered kingdoms. I could not carry it, and did not need it. I left it behind willingly.“
He nodded. “Do you desire power?”
She shrugged again. “I had power. I conquered all of the land that we could find. It was a great deal of trouble. I left it behind willingly.”
He nodded again. “Do you desire knowledge?”
She thought about that for a moment. “The only knowledge I desire is that I came here seeking,” she said slowly. “I want to know what is the right trade for me. My greatest skill is in fighting, but I no longer wish to be a warrior. I have tried farming, and making, and ruling, but they are not the right trades for me. I desire rest, and contentment, in my right place in the world, and that knowledge is all that I desire.”
“In that,” the head of the village said, “I may be able to assist you.”
And the head of the village led the warrior up the valley, to a cave. Inside the cave there was a great door, and bars of wood and of copper and of iron had been set across it. “Behind this door,” the head of the village told the warrior, “there is an artifact of great power, and great destruction. Our ancestors sealed it away, and ever since we have guarded it against any who would seek it. Will you guard it, great warrior, and protect the world from its danger?”
“Yes,” the warrior said, and for the first time in ten years, she drew the great axe that she carried on her back. “I will.”
Many years later, a great king found his way into that hidden valley, searching for an artifact rumoured to grant power and immortality to any who wielded it. He came with soldiers and sorcerers, though he did not attack at first. Instead, he approached the village. “I have come for the treasure,” he said. “That which grants power and immortality.”
“Soldiers and sorcerers cannot aid you in this,” the head of the village told him. “You must go to the guardian alone.”
So the king went alone up into the mountains at the head of the valley, and entered the cave, where the guardian sat with her axe across her knees. And to his surprise, though not to hers, they knew each other.
The warrior who stayed and became a king looked upon the warrior who had walked away. “So this is where you went,” he said slowly. “You guard the artifact now?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “And you want it?”
“It will give me power and longevity. Power to protect the great land that I rule.”
“It is a force for destruction,” the one who walked away said. “If it is unleashed, it will destroy the kingdom you have ruled.”
“I can control it,” the king said, but there was doubt in his voice. Before him stood one of his oldest friends, one he had never raised his sword against. To turn on her would be a hard thing. And even if he did, there had only ever been two warriors who were his equal, and one stood before him. He did not know if he could defeat her.
“You cannot.” She rose from her seat, and went to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “My friend, why do you desire this thing? You have been a great warrior, and a great king. Why seek more?”
He looked at her, at the silver in her hair, and the lines on her face. “Because I have grown old,” he said, “as you have. And soon I will not be able to protect my lands and my people.”
“They are not your lands, or your people. You conquered them, and ruled them by might. Now they must be returned to themselves.”
“But I have protected them. It is true we fought once, but it has been so long since then. I have been a good king. Who will protect them, when I am gone?”
The warrior who turned away smiled at him. “You will,” she said gently. “And I will. And we will protect them by keeping this gate shut, so that no power greater than that of sword and axe may do them harm.”
The king was not persuaded at once, but spoke with his friend long into the night. And when dawn came, he went down to his soldiers and his sorcerers, and told them that he would no longer be their king. He charged them each to return to their own lands, and to keep the peace that his empire had created. And the great king, who had been a great warrior, never again left that valley.
Many, many years later, when the three warriors and their empire had become legend, a lone woman entered the valley. She was robed in silk, and her eyes held the light of strange stars. She did not speak to the villagers, and when they tried to stop her, she sent them into sleep with a word.
She entered the cave, and there she was surprised. The ancient scrolls she had followed spoke of a great door, and a great door there was. They spoke of ancient sigils of warding, and sigils there were. They warned of great bars of wood, of copper, and of iron, and those bars blocked the door.
But no scroll had spoken of two statues flanking the gates, one holding an axe across its knees, the other a sword. She walked towards them, frowning. And when she approached, each statue opened its eyes, and dust fell from them, and they looked at her. And they knew her, and she knew them.
Legends have great power, and not one of the three had been known to die. Two had left, when their fighting was over, and been seen no more, and the third had renounced his throne and departed from the knowledge of men before more than half his hair had turned silver. And so, more than a hundred years later, they stood undying, in a cave, and looked upon one another.
“I thought you had died,” said the one who had sailed across the sea.
“We thought the same,” said the one who walked away.
“And now you stand in my way.”
“Yes.” The one who had been a king laid his hands on his sword-hilt. “What is contained behind this gate should never be released.”
“Why not?” The one who had sailed across the sea frowned. “The three of us once conquered a land from sea to sea.”
“Yes,” said the one who walked away. “And when I saw that all I had won, with all that bloodshed, was another sea the twin of the one I had left, I walked away and fought no more.”
“Yes,” said the one who stayed. “And when the two of you left, I remained, and the empire that we began in blood became a peaceful land, and its people thrived. I, also, came seeking this thing, because I wished to protect my people. Our friend convinced me that it would only destroy what I had built.”
“And if I desire destruction?”
“Then we will prevent you.”
The one who had walked away laid a hand on the shoulder of the one who had crossed the sea. “Once, when we were young and cruel, we conquered a land from sea to sea. My friend, who was once as a sister to me, do not now do worse than what we did then. Let us do no more harm, save in defence of those who live in the lands we conquered.”
The king had been persuaded in one night. This time, they spoke for three days and three nights.
When the next seeker after power came, centuries later, three guardians sat in the cave, sleeping until need called them to wakefulness.
That seeker was not a friend, and could not be reasoned with.
But the three had not grown weaker, and nor had their legends. And the gate was not opened.
That gate was never opened.
My lantern is not a trap, glowing softly on the dark forest floor. You should pick it up and take it. I am begging you to take it.
Author’s note: It’s been a long time since I tried my hand at a true New Fairy Tale, so here’s one I wrote especially to post on my birthday. It has its roots in a book of Chinese stories I read as a child, with some threads from Russian and Korean fairy tales woven in, and a little bit of Kubo And The Two Strings found its way in as well. No appropriation is intended, as always, only an attempt to create stories that extend outside the Very European Fairy Tale Mold.
Comments, reblogs, tags and other appreciation make great birthday gifts. I just mention it. ;) @deepwaterwritingprompts, thanks as always.
#
The Three Lanterns
There was no darkness like the darkness of that forest. The huge trees spread out their branches and broad leaves so that no hint of light could reach the ground. During the day, it was gloomy and dim. During the night, it was darker than the deepest cave.
But the road was smooth and level, and there were no bandits. Some said that that was because even bandits feared the place. Others that the forest did not permit them to enter.
But it was safe enough, if you followed the rules. Kept to the path. Harmed nothing. Took nothing. Showed respect. And, above all, so long as you did not stop. To make a camp within the forest was dangerous.
Ju had travelled through the forest several times. He was a travelling peddler, carrying pretty trifles and useful items to small villages off the beaten track, so poor that he was not worth the bother of robbing except for the most desperate of bandits, but surviving well enough. He was familiar with this road, and when night fell he had lit his lantern and continued to walk, leading his two laden ponies. It was a long day’s travel, at walking pace, but there would be a campsite on the other side that he would reach by moonrise.
He was perhaps an hour from the edge of the forest when he saw a light between the trees, in the distance.
He had never seen a light in this forest before, save on the path. “Some fool has tried to make a camp here,” he told the ponies. He often talked to them, having no other company. “Or perhaps wandered off the road and become lost.”
He hesitated, but he was a young man with a kind heart. He carefully tied the ponies to the branch of a dead tree fallen by the road, then faced the forest and bowed. “Please excuse my intrusion,” he said as politely as he knew how, “but I think the person whose light I see must be in trouble. I will go and see, and then come back to the road. Please forgive me if I offend.”
He paused, waiting to see if the forest would indicate approval or disapproval. It didn’t make any especially alarming noises, or throw down a fallen branch in his path, so he decided that he was not to be immediately smote for his insolence. He picked up his lantern again, and began to walk towards the other light.
As he approached the light, he called out. “Hello? Are you a traveller? You should not leave the road, it is not safe.”
But there was no answer, and when he reached the light – not so far from the road, he could still see the glimmer of the second lantern set on one of the ponies’ packs – there was no-one there at all. Only a lantern, a hand-lantern like his own, set on a stone in the middle of a small clearing.
It was a small, ordinary thing, but something about it chilled him. It was… wrong, in all ways wrong. He hadn’t seen another traveller on the road all the time he was in the forest, nor any sign that anyone had passed that way for days past. Even if he had, why would someone leave a lantern burning in this place? In the middle of the forest, like a strange offering? Surely it must be a trap, and he remembered the warnings that one must never take anything from the forest. He stepped back. “My apologies,” he said, trying not to sound nervous. “I will go back – “
But when he turned, an owl was sitting on the branch of a tree directly in front of him, watching him. Owls were bad omens, keepers of secrets, and he flinched back. But this only watched him steadily and then, slowly, so he could not mistake it, it looked at the lamp, and then at him.
Ju looked down at the lamp again. He was struck again by the wrongness of it. This lamp did not belong in the forest. It wasn’t right here. Slowly, keeping a wary eye on the owl, he lowered his hand to touch the lamp. “This does not belong to the forest,” he said carefully. “Perhaps you wish me to take it away.”
Please. He did not hear it. He knew he had not heard it. And yet he felt as though he had. Please. It was as clear as the yearning in the eyes of a child looking at a sweet, or a hungry dog at a piece of meat. It was a desperate longing, a plea.
It could be the plea of a hungry spirit, waiting to devour him. And yet, as the owl watched quietly, with no warning hoot, he didn’t think it was. And he had a kind heart that struggled to say no to any pleading.
He took up the lamp in his free hand, and when he looked again, the owl was gone. Shaken and frightened, he carried both lamps back towards the road, trying not to imagine that he heard footsteps behind him.
He reached the road, and sighed in relief. The ponies were there. Perhaps, after all, he was imagining things, he told himself. Someone had played a prank, that was all, leaving a lamp to frighten the superstitious. Yes, surely that was the explanation.
He lifted the lamp before his face, to blow it out, and by its light, as he lowered his eyes, he saw a pair of small bare feet step onto the road. Bare feet, below a white garment.
When he lowered the lamp, a spirit stood before him. A maiden spirit, her hair unbound and her white garments plain. She looked at the lamp, and then at him, and made an imploring gesture. She was the one who had begged him to take it, he could feel that same urgent longing again as she pressed her hands together in entreaty.
And, strangely, standing before the spirit of a mortal being made him feel less frightened. A fox, now, or a tree spirit, he would have fled from them. But the forest did not like those who lingered here. So what would happen to someone who died here? Wouldn’t they be as desperate to get out as any living person might be? Wouldn’t they bind themselves to some human thing, like a lantern, in the hope of escape?
“You want to get out of the forest,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “If I carry the lamp for you, you can get out.”
She nodded silently.
“All right. It’s not far. I’ll take you.” He settled the lantern on the pack that didn’t already have one, slipping its flat base under a strap to hold it steady, and then he untied the reins of the ponies – neither of whom seemed aware of the spirit – and led them on. When he glanced over his shoulder, the spectral girl sat on the pack beside her lantern, her hands clasped before her and her head bowed.
He walked on, and did not look back again for nearly half the distance to the edge of the forest. Then he stopped so suddenly that one pony nearly stepped on his foot, and shook its head reprovingly.
There was another light.
Again, he tethered the ponies, and again, he walked into the forest.
This time it wasn’t a hand-lantern, but a floating lamp made of wood and paper, caught in the roots of a tree where they reached out into a stream. This time he waited for no signs, but took up the lamp, and carried it carefully back to the ponies.
A second ghostly girl stepped onto the road beside him, and when she did, the first uttered a faint cry, and went to her. The sound seemed to come from far away, though the spirits were close enough to touch, had they been living. Ju bowed to them both, for politeness’ sake, and secured the second lantern on the other pony’s pack. When he looked back, the second spirit rode on the back of the second pony.
He was almost to the edge of the forest, and staring at the road ahead to keep himself from looking at those ghostly forms again, when he heard another faint, distant wail – no, two. He looked back, and both spirits pointed up.
When he looked up, he saw a third lantern hanging from a branch beside the road. Even as he looked at it, the wick was just flaring up, as if it were newly lighted, and both ghosts uttered their soft wails again.
Ju sighed. “I have no other ponies,” he said, far less fearful than exasperated now, “so this one will have to walk.” But he climbed up into the lower branches of the tree, and took the hanging lantern in his hand and carried it down. And when he returned to the road, a third spirit stepped into the dust beside him.
This one was different, somehow, from the other two. There was still colour in her round cheeks, and her garments were not tattered, and she looked both more and less… real… than the others. But still they clearly knew one another, for the other two girls went to her and put their arms about her, weeping. They were all young, he realized, looking at them, younger than he was. Dressed as maidens, and – when he looked at them side by side – not unalike in appearance. Sisters, perhaps?
“Come,” he told them after a moment. “It’s not far now.” He turned and walked, carrying the hanging lantern in his hand, for it had a pointed base and could not be set down. And the third girl walked beside him, her head down and tears running silently down her cheeks, until they reached the edge of the forest and the camping place there.
All three vanished from his sight, then, and he wanted to believe they were gone for good – but the three lanterns still burned, and they did not seem to consume their oil or their candle. Reluctantly, he hung the hanging lamp on a low branch, and set the other two lamps beneath it. Then he made camp as far from them as he could, tending his horses and rolling himself in a blanket with his feet towards the three strange lights so he wouldn’t see them.
When he slept, he dreamed. He found himself in a garden, the like of which he had never seen – this was the garden of a rich merchant, or a minor noble, something fine and grand. And in the garden he saw three girls seated together on a long bench. All three were pretty. One, the tallest, wore blue. The second, the plumpest, wore green. And the third, the brightest-eyed, wore pink. When they saw him, they rose and came to him, smiling, though their eyes were red with weeping and tears were still on their cheeks.
“Thank you, kind sir, for carrying us out of the forest,” the one in blue said, and she bowed deeply to him.
“Thank you, kind sir, for freeing our souls from our imprisonment,” the one in green said, and she also bowed deeply.
“Thank you, kind sir, for returning my sisters to me” the one in pink said softly, and bowed as well.
“We must ask another favour of you,” the one in blue said, and her voice was grave and sad. “For we two, years have passed since our deaths.” She gestured to the sister in green. “The only service anyone could do us was to carry the lanterns to which our spirits were bound out of the forest, and no-one has ever been brave enough to do so, until you came.”
The one in green nodded, and tears welled in her eyes again. “But our sister is different,” she said, putting her arm around the sister in pink. “For she died only this very night, and could live again if the lantern is taken to where her body lies, so her spirit may return to it.”
“Please,” the one in pink whispered. “Please take me back. If you do not, none of us can leave in peace. I do not ask this for myself, but for our mother, who still lives. Will you let us tell you our story?”
Ju woke before dawn and displeased the ponies greatly by harnessing them and leaving their camp as soon as first light showed him the road. He didn’t go his usual way, but headed for a larger town than he ever usually entered, for his small trinkets could not compete with the goods of the merchants there.
He went straight to one of the gate guards, and greeted him by his name, much to that young man’s surprise. “I do not know you,” the young man said, “so how is it that you know me?”
“Come with me to the Chu house, and you will find out,” Ju said, and went on.
Next he went to a temple, and greeted a monk by name. The old man was surprised, and also asked how Ju knew him.
“Come with me to the Chu house, and you will find out,” Ju said again, and went on.
A third time he stopped, greeting a young robed official by his name. The official was angry, and asked why Ju spoke to him with such casual disrespect.
“Come with me to the Chu house, and you will find out.” Ju said a third time, and went on. And the official, like the young guard and the old monk, stared in wonder and followed him.
When they reached the Chu house, there was much wailing within, and the official and the old monk and the guard all turned pale. “Not again,” the monk groaned.
“The gods cannot be so cruel,” the official murmured.
“It is not the work of the gods,” the guard said angrily.
“No, it is not.” Ju pushed the gate open, and walked in, still leading his ponies and carrying the lamp that could not be laid down.
When they were inside, he tied the ponies to a rail, and took the hand-lantern from the first pony’s back. “Carry this,” he told the official, “as gently as if it were the heart of your beloved.” The official received it in both hands, too amazed to speak, and Ju took up the second lamp, the floating lamp, and gave it to the monk. “Carry this,” he told the old man, “as tenderly as if it were your new-born grandchild.” The monk took the lamp between his two hands, wonderingly, and Ju turned to the young guard. “And you,” he said, “keep your halberd ready. It will be needed.”
Then, carrying the hanging lamp carefully, he walked into the house. Servants rushed to him, telling him to go, but he refused, raising his voice. “Last night, not quite two hours past sunset, the third daughter of this house died,” he said loudly enough for everyone in the house to hear him, “of the same strange malady that took her older sisters. You must take me to where her body lies, for then you will see a great wonder.”
Some protested, but the official came and stood beside him. “You know me,” he said grimly. “Was I not betrothed to the first daughter of this house? Lead us.”
“You know me,” the old monk said, coming to stand beside Ju on his other side. “Was I not the most trusted servant of this house, with the love of a grandfather for the three daughters of my mistress, until I went to serve in a temple in my old age? Make way.”
The young guard said nothing, but he scowled and raised his halberd a little.
Then the servants fell back, and did not dare to prevent them, and the old monk led the way to a room where several people were gathered around the body of a young woman.
The older woman who knelt beside her, and who resembled all three of the sisters, looked up angrily when the group entered the room. “Who dares to intrude –“ she began, and then faltered and stopped, looking at faces she knew. “Why… why have you come? Did you know that… that my youngest daughter also…”
The official shook his head. “This man came up to me in the street, and called me by my personal name, though I do not know him,” he said, gesturing at Ju. “And he bade me come to this house to find out why.”
“It was the same for me,” the monk said, nodding.
“I, as well.” The guard looked at Ju with great curiosity. “And, Lady Chu, he came straight to this house from the gate, as if he had walked the road a thousand times, though he says he has never come to this town before, and none of us know him.”
Ju blushed, when they all looked at him, and felt very humble and embarrassed in front of these grand and important people. But he had a promise to keep, so he cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “I will explain,” he said, “by telling a story, just as it was told to me.”
He looked down at the lamp that hung from his hand, and marked well the other eyes that glanced at it. “Once, I have heard, there was a wealthy widow,” he said softly. “A widow with three daughters, whom she dearly loved. Though many men courted her, for she was comely as well as rich, she refused them all. A husband might care more for his own wealth than for the dowries of her daughters, and so she would not marry until they did. The eldest was betrothed to a young official, and happily so, and her mother prepared wedding garments and a rich dowry. But a week before her wedding, she fell suddenly ill and died.”
The mother wept, and the official bowed his head. Another man, richly dressed, seemed to want to speak, but Ju gave him no opportunity.
“A year later, the second daughter, two days after her first meeting with a matchmaker, also fell ill and died. That was two years ago. Last night, the third daughter met the same fate, on the very day when she was deemed old enough to marry.“ He looked around, raising his voice a little when the rich man tried to speak. “Perhaps a stranger could have heard this much. So I will add that the first daughter loved blue above all colours, and embroidered dragonflies more often than anything else. The second daughter favoured green, and embroidered chrysanthemums. The third liked to wear pink, and hated embroidery.”
“Are you a sorcerer?” the monk asked, still clasping the lamp gently. “IS that how you know these things?”
“I am not a sorcerer. I am only a peddler, who passed through a dark forest, and found three lanterns burning where no lanterns should be.” Now he stepped closer to the richly dressed man. “And you, who have been sweating since these three lanterns were carried in, know why I found them. You know that three times, a vile curse has been laid in this house. Three times, you have used wicked magic to bind the soul of a maiden to a lantern which was taken into the dark forest and left there, so that her body would fail and die as the soul was drawn out of it. Three times you did this, to preserve the mother’s fortune, for you are her brother, and if she died childless all that she possesses would come to you and your sons, and you would be rich.”
“It is a lie!” the man cried, but he was indeed sweating, and pale besides. “It is a foul lie! Who would believe such a tale? You will be beheaded for this – “
“I will prove it,” Ju said, and he turned and knelt beside the body, touching the lantern to it.
In that instant, all three lanterns, which had burned for a night and half a day, went out, and the third daughter drew in a breath and opened her eyes. She saw her mother, and began to cry, and her mother embraced her and wept.
The young guard, whose father had been a retainer to the father of the three daughters, sprang at once to block the rich man’s path and hold his halberd to his throat. “I will strike your head from your body if you move, though I die for it,” he said quietly. “And there is no-one here who would stop me.”
The uncle was executed for his wicked deeds three days later. On that same day, Ju carried the hand-lantern and the floating lantern to place them on the graves of the first two girls, and bowed deeply. “Rest well,” he told them. “Your sister and your mother are safe.”
When he went to bid farewell to the mother, she bade him sit with her, and offered him a chest full of gold. “It is only a part of what would have been my oldest daughter’s dowry,” Lady Chu said, sighing deeply. “You gave her spirit rest, and must have some reward.”
Ju refused, very embarrassed. “I did not seek any reward when I came,” he said, bowing several times in his nervousness. “I am very glad that her spirit is at peace, and want no better reward than her freedom.”
Then the mother pushed forward another chest, filled with silver coins. “Then take this, which would have been a part of my second daughter’s dowry. For the kindness you did her, you have a right to this reward.”
He refused again, his face red. “Please, Lady Chu, I am only a poor wandering peddler. This is far too fine a reward for me. I am only glad that your second daughter’s spirit is free from its confinement and may find peace.”
Then the mother offered him a third chest, filled with incense and perfumes. “Then take this, which would have been a part of my third daughter’s dowry. It would be enough to establish yourself as a merchant, and in time you may become wealthy honestly, by your own labours. As a mother, I am ashamed to offer so small a price for my dear child’s life, but I fear you will not accept even this much.”
Ju refused a third time, so embarrassed that he forgot to bow at all. “Indeed, I could not,” he said awkwardly. “Please, I do not desire any reward, except to know that your youngest daughter is safe and well.”
Lady Chu looked at him, and suddenly she laughed behind her fan. “Then take this,” she said, handing him a rolled paper, “and read it. You can read, I think?”
“Yes, I can.” It was his great accomplishment, and he was proud of it. He took the paper, and read it.
“The young peddler has shown that he is a person of great courage and virtue,” the paper said. “Firstly, in stopping in the dark forest to take up the lanterns and allowing the spirits to travel beside him without fear. Secondly, in carrying the three lanterns to the house of Lady Chu, honestly revealing to her the cause of her daughter’s deaths, and charging an important man with this crime, which could have led to his own death if he had not been believed. Offer him three rewards, one for each of the three daughters, and make them very rich rewards that would tempt any man. If he refuses them all, he is truly virtuous, and humble as well as brave, and should be offered the third daughter of the Chu household for his wife, for he will be a good and honest husband and care for both his wife and his mother-in-law.” And beside it was the stamp of the city’s ruler, who was a distant relative of Lady Chu.
Poor young Ju, who was only a peddler, was so shocked he almost fainted, and had to be brought around with wine and fanning. Despite all his protests – and he could not protest very much when the third daughter smiled at him with her bright eyes and showed how pleased she was by this plan – he married the third daughter, and was wealthy and contented all his days.
And every year, on the anniversary of the day when they had met, he and his wife went to the edge of the forest and hung three paper lanterns on the first tree at the edge of the road, bowed to the forest, and called out ‘let these lanterns light the steps of anyone in the forest who does not belong there, be they living or dead, and guide them home’.
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
The woman took the pear, and drew her shawl further over her head before she turned, so that all she saw was a pair of fine leather shoes with long pointed toes. She ate the pear as she walked home, and it was the finest she had ever tasted. When she reached her own gate, she wiped the juice from her chin with the edge of her shawl, and knelt to bury the pear’s core in the soft ground near the gate. It was not the right time for planting… but she did not think that would matter this time.
And in the spring, she bore a child. A girl, with curling leaf-brown hair like her mother’s and merry dark eyes like her father’s, who was not fretful or difficult, but always a joy to her mother. That spring was the happiest of the woman’s life, and she tended the tiny sapling that had sprung up where she had buried the magical pear almost as carefully as she tended her daughter. Whatever price would be asked of her, it would be worth it.
She expected the price to come at Midsummer, but it did not. Still all was well, her daughter was sweet and healthy, and they were happy all through the summer and the autumn. But when winter began, the child fell ill. She cried day and night, and grew thin and pale, staring up at her mother with sad dark eyes as if she begged Mother to make her well again. For a whole month, her mother nursed her tenderly, never laying her down but tying the babe to her back or her breast with her brown woolen shawl, for warmth. In time she grew better, though she was still thin and fretful, and her parents doted on her as much as ever. “It is the cold, no doubt,” her father said comfortingly. “Come spring, she will grow stronger.”
She did grow stronger, and in spring she was less fretful, stumbling about on her baby legs and reaching for things like any child. But her mother noticed that the dark eyes did not often look into hers now, and sometimes she laughed or cried for no reason that the mother could see. And if unwatched, she would always creep or totter out to the sapling pear tree and sit by it.
When the woman woke on that next Midsummer’s Day, the child’s small bed was empty, with a pear leaf on the pillow, and the woman knew it was time. She drew her brown woolen shawl over her head, and went in the cool light before dawn to that clearing and that well. She did not cast anything into the water this time, but stood and waited.
“You are timely,” said the voice, with a triumphant purr in it now. “Now walk around the well, and look behind it.”
When the woman did so, she found a small bed spread upon the moss, and in the bed two little ones side by side. Each had leaf-brown curls, and merry dark eyes, and lifted baby arms towards her.
“One is the child you bore,” the voice said from the shadows, smug and satisfied with itself. “One is the changeling that made all your winter days a burden. The child in your arms when you leave here will be yours always, and the one you leave you will never see again. Choose wisely.”
It was a cruel, cruel test, and the mother wept as she looked down at the two little girls. It was not long before she saw that one pair of dark eyes slid away from hers when she gazed into the small face, while the others gazed straight at her, and yet she wept. Then she wiped her eyes on the brown woolen shawl, and straightened up, staring straight ahead. “You said,” she said carefully, “that the child I carry away will be mine forever, and a child left behind I will never see again. Is that your only condition?”
“Yes,” the creature purred. “The choice is yours entire, as are the consequences.”
“I understand.” She pulled the brown woolen shawl from her head and shoulders, and spread it out beside the small bed, and wrapped her choice tenderly in its soft folds.
And when she stood, both arms cradling her burden, the voice sounded different. There was no coaxing or wheedling, no laughing or purring, only shock and disbelief. “You cannot take them both!”
“Why not? You did not say I must take only one.” And now she turned and faced it, the fairy creature, and though it stood more than a foot taller than she, and was fearsome to look upon with its goat’s eyes and sharp teeth, it stepped back from her glare. “Perhaps I only bore one, but both I have held in my arms, and nursed at my breast. Both have I sung to sleep, and kissed on waking. They are both *mine*.”
The creature stared at her as if it had never seen anything like her. “But one is sickly and fretful. It is strange, and eats insects and cries without reason.”
“She is not sickly and fretful now, not after nursing and care. And if you think eating insects and crying without reason makes a babe strange, you know little of them.” She hitched up the heavy bundle, the two girls cuddling happily against their mother. “She did not make my winter a misery. A labour, perhaps, but a joyful one, for she is my child. And I will go now, for I have made my choice.”
She turned and walked away, and the creature did not stop her, and when the woman reached her home again, she set down both children on the soft sheepskin before the fire. “Well,” she told her puzzled husband, “they took our child at the beginning of winter, and left a changeling in her place, and then bade me take one and leave the other this morn as if I would ever turn my back on either one of the babes I’ve nursed and loved. If the Fair Folk think it is a punishment to give me two children instead of one, why, the more fools they.”
“Foolish indeed,” her husband said, and he reached down to ruffle two heads of leaf-brown curls. “Do you know which is which?”
“Of course,” the mother said, affronted. “What mother could not tell her children apart? This one is our Wulfwynn.” She pointed to the child she had borne, and named ‘Wolf joy’, for any child born of a bargain with the fae brought danger as well as happiness. “And this is our winter child.” She pointed to the other. “I thought about it on the way home, and I think we should name her Wulfrun, for she was a secret meant to bring us harm, though she will be our joy hereafter.”
Ever after, Wulfwynn and Wulfrun were spoken of as twins, and if one girl was a little shy and strange, a wild fawn to her sister’s sturdy calf, well, that was the nature of twins. Certainly both girls were pretty and kind, taking after the mother who’d refused to give either one of them up, and dearly loved by their parents. They tended the pear tree all their days, and often called it their third sister, and its fruit was the sweetest to be found anywhere.
Now and then in secret, the women whispered of the trick the fairy creature from the well had tried to play, and laughed over its downfall, being fool enough to think that a woman so desperate for one child would hesitate to take two, given half a chance. And more than one barren woman followed her example, in the years after, hoping to trick the fairy creature into giving them two children instead of one.
The people of that village have a reputation for being sometimes strange, these days. There are many whose eyes slip away from one who stares into them too long, who are a little wild and a little shy, whose voices are too soft or too loud. But they are merry, and kind, and their families love them dearly.
What the creature of the well thinks of it, no-one knows. But it never stops a mother from taking both babes, and never stopped offering them, so perhaps it is content with the bargain.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a great forest with trees so tall that they shut out the sky, and it was always dark in that place. A single road passed through it, one side to the other, and no wise traveler ever ventured off that road.
In the forest to the east of the road there was a great hill, with a tower on it, and in that tower there lived a wizard. He was solitary and ill-tempered, but if someone in trouble came to him humbly and begged his aid, he did not usually refuse.
In the forest to the west of the road - or so it was said, for it was not visible as the hill and tower were - there was a great dark hollow with a house at the bottom of it, where the forest witch, the Cailleach Foraoise, lived with her seven daughters. She was ill-natured and dangerous, but still, she had been known to give aid to those willing to pay her price.
It happened that the king of the land had grown cruel and dangerous, and he taxed his people to starvation, he poisoned their land and slew any who displeased him. He slew even his own sons, when they defied him, and all went in terror of him. This king had three nephews, the sons of his sister, and they saw that soon they would be in danger from him as well, so they fled his castle by night, and took the road through the dark forest.
When they reached the river that ran through the heart of the forest, they stopped and took counsel of each other. They must do all that they could to save the kingdom and its people, that they agreed, but they debated what that was until the youngest spoke.
“Brothers, here are three ways before us,” he said, “We may go on through the wood, to our allies to the south, and there beg their aid against the king who has turned kin-slayer in his madness. We may turn to the east, and seek aid of the magician, who may be able to cure our uncle or else end his wickedness. Or we may turn to the west, and consult the Cailleach Foraoise, who it is said will give great aid to those willing to pay her price. And we, too, are three. One of us should take each way, so we may have three chances instead of one to succeed.”
His brothers did not like the idea, but they could not fault his reasoning. “I will be the one to go west,” said the eldest brother, “for it is a dangerous way, and I am the eldest.”
“No,” said the youngest, to his eldest brother. “You are the king’s heir, now that our cousins are dead, and you have a right to ask the aid of our kingdom’s allies where we do not. You must take the road.”
“That is true,” the eldest said reluctantly. “It is my place to make that request.”
“Then I will go to the west,” the middle brother said, “for I am the strongest and largest, and can protect myself.”
“No,” the youngest said again, “you should go to the wizard. You are large and strong, and not afraid of hard work, so when he puts you to work to prove your humility you will do well. I am the one who will go to the west, for it is well known that the youngest of three or of seven is lucky, and luck is what will be needed most.”
And both his brothers smiled, though they feared for their brother. “You are clever with your tongue, and that may serve you even better than luck,” the eldest said. They clasped hands, and wished each other well, and the eldest crossed the bridge over the river, and the middle brother turned to follow the river to the east, and the youngest turned to follow the river to the west, and soon they were out of each other’s sight.
The youngest brother walked downhill for a long time, always following the edge of the river. After some hours, he heard a small peeping, and found a baby bird that had fallen from its nest, its parents fluttering anxiously around it. Being kind of heart, he carefully took up the tiny bird in one hand, and climbed the tree to set it back into its nest.
Some way further on, he heard rustling, and found that a leaping fish had been caught in the leaves of a tree, and was thrashing and gasping. Being kind of heart, he waded out into the water to shake the branch, so the fish fell free into the river.
Shortly before sunset - though he knew this only by the colour of the sky he saw in tiny scraps far above between the leaves - he heard yelping, and found a young fox with one paw trapped between two stones. Being kind of heart, he wrapped his hands in his cloak to protect them, and freed the young fox despite its attempts to bite him.
It was long after the sky turned black, and he was using a lantern to light his way, when he came to the shores of a lake. “Of course,” he said, glancing at the river, “a hollow by the river would be a lake. And yet the house of the Cailleach Foraoise is in the middle of the hollow, so they say, which is a puzzle.”
Since he saw no immediate solution to the problem, he sat down on the bank of the lake to rest and eat some bread and cheese. As he ate, he heard a trill above his head, though at this time of night all birds should be sleeping, and he looked up to see one of the birds whose hatchling he had returned to its nest. He threw some crumbs onto the grass, and the bird ate them. Then he heard a splashing, and saw a fish leap in the lake, and thought it might be the one he had rescued, so he threw some crumbs to the fish also.
When a young fox peered cautiously out from under a bush, he laughed. “Of course,” he said, “I should have known,” and he threw a chunk of cheese to the fox. “If you are the daughters of the Cailleach Foraoise, then I am sorry that I have no better fare to give you. If you are magical, then I will be grateful for any aid you choose to give me. And if you are only hungry, then I am glad to share what I have.”
Another laugh, harsh and croaking, echoed his own, and when he turned he saw an old woman of so wild and fearsome an appearance that she could be no-one but the Cailleach Foraoise. “Well said, youngster,” she said approvingly. “One may be kind without being stupid, and offer aid without knowing whether or no there will be a reward for it.”
He got to his feet, and bowed deeply. “Wise Woman,” he said, which was the polite way to address a witch in that time and place, “I come seeking your aid.”
“Of course you do. No-one comes here who does not.” She leaned close to look at him, her bright eyes seeming to look right through to his soul, and he stood still and did not show fear, though she was close enough now that he could smell the scent of death that clung around her, and see the necklace of human bones around her neck. “Well, you may have a hearing, at least. Come with me, young man, and lend me your strong arms to help an old woman home.”
She led him to a small boat, and bade him row towards the middle of the small lake. And though the lake had seemed empty when he looked across it from the shore, as he rowed a mist seemed to fade from his eyes, and he saw a house raised on tall stilts in the middle of the lake. It was a large house, large enough for a lord, but made all of logs with the bark still on them, and strangely formed, with three levels each larger than the one below, so it looked upside down.
The Cailleach Foraoise secured the boat to a hook on one of the stilts, which were oak logs bigger around than three men’s arms could reach, and then rapped on it. “Sky above, earth below,” she said, “let me in.” And the side of the great log indented itself, to make a comfortable ladder, and they climbed up it to a small door that opened itself at the same password.
Within the house, the youngest brother found himself in a long, low hall, with fires burning at each end of it in great fireplaces, though he had seen no chimney outside. And within there were seven young women, who rose and greeted their mother with great affection.
There were many tales about the seven daughters of the Cailleach Foraoise. Some said they were as fair as fairy maidens, and others that they were as ugly as their mother. Some said that they were witches, and some that they were innocents stolen away as infants by the witch and imprisoned by her. But the youngest brother saw only seven young women, some pretty, some less so, but none who could not have walked down any road in his kingdom quite unremarked.
They greeted him pleasantly, and invited him to join them for their evening meal, which was good bread and fish stew and fresh greens. He thanked them politely, and ate what was offered him, and afterwards they showed him to a pallet bed by the fire.
“Tomorrow,” the Cailleach Foraoise said, “we will begin.”
The next morning the youngest brother was roused at dawn by the oldest of the seven sisters, who was tall and stern-looking. “Today you will aid me in my work,” she told him, “and each of my sisters in turn for the next six days. At the end of that time, you may ask our mother for what you want, and she will tell you the price of it.”
“Then I am glad to assist you,” the youngest brother said. “Put me to work, lady, and I will do my best.”
“We will see,” said the oldest sister. She led him a great hot kitchen. “I do all the cooking, and today you are to help me.” And all that day, from dawn until dusk, the youngest brother stirred and kneaded, peeled and chopped, washed and scoured, hardly stopping to eat himself. He did his best, but for every task he completed, the eldest sister completed two, and he made many errors.
At the end she put her hands on her hips, and looked at him. “Well, you have not shirked or complained,” she said, “but you have not done well, either. What have you to say?”
“I can only say that I have done my best,” he said meekly, “at a task I never turned my hand to before, and if I am not your equal, that is only to be expected, for you are a master of your craft, and I am not.”
“That is a good answer,” she told him, and bade him go to his evening meal, and rest, for he must work again tomorrow.
On the second day, the second sister, who was a woman larger and stronger than most men, took him to a room full of clothes and cloths, and great tubs of water. “Today is the day for washing,” she said, “and you must help me to wash until everything is done.”
So all that day the youngest brother scrubbed and rinsed, wrung and beat, and hauled and heated water. He did his best, but for every sheet or garment he washed, she washed three, and he made many errors.
At the end of the day she put her hands on her hips and looked at him. “You have not shirked or complained,” she said, “but a maid of fifteen might do more than you, strong man though you appear. What have you to say for yourself?”
And again he answered meekly. “I have done my best, at a task I never turned my hand to before, and if I am not your equal then that is to be expected, for you are a master of your craft and I am not.”
She laughed, and showed him her broad hands and arms as muscled as any blacksmith’s. “There is no man who has hands stronger than a washerwoman,” she told him, “and it’s well that you own it, or you’d have felt them alongside your head. Go eat and rest, now, for you have more work to do.”
On the third day, the third sister, who had a merry eye and curling dark hair, took him to the stillroom. There he chopped and ground, simmered and strained, lifted what was heavy and tended the fire. He did his best, but he knew as little of herb lore as he did of cooking and washing, and again he made many errors.
At the end of the day the third sister, who had talked more than the others and taught him much that was useful to know, shook her head. “Well, you did your best,” she said kindly, “and perhaps in time you would be better.”
He was grateful for her tolerance, for he knew he’d ruined more than one brewing that would have to be done again. “I have done my best at a task I never turned my hand to before, and if I am not your equal then that is to be expected, for you are a master of your craft and I am not… but I am sorry I did so ill, and fear I’ve made as much work as I’ve saved.”
She smiled at that, and patted his shoulder. “Oh, it’s not so bad as that, and it truly was a help to have someone to lift the heavy crocks and knead the thicker ointments, for I’m not as strong as some of the others, and it’s a trial to me. You go eat and rest, for you’ve four more days left.”
And so it went for the next three days. The youngest brother found that he was no match for the fourth sister at carding and spinning and winding wool, no match for the fifth sister at crafting in wood and leather, and no match at all for the sixth sister in setting fish traps, or snares for game, or hunting mushrooms and other good things that grew wild. Every day he worked hard and did his best, and admitted that he was no match for the sister who worked beside him, and they teased, or encouraged, or laughed, each as her own nature inclined.
On the last day the youngest sister, who was a small, plump girl of no more than fourteen, led him up to the roof where he found a garden. It was a strange garden, in which it seemed to be all seasons at once, and where spring blossom hung beside ripe fruit and young shoots stood beside ripe grain. “Where magic makes all grow quickly,” she told him seriously, “weeds grow too. Also, we must harvest fruit and vegetables and grain for the kitchen.”
They worked side by side, and for the first time the youngest brother found himself almost the equal of his partner. He had less knowledge, but much greater strength, and under her guidance his piles of weeds and baskets of vegetables equaled hers. She saw him looking at them, and laughed. “Yes, you won’t be scolded today,” she said cheerfully. “Though if I were you, I would not boast to my sisters that you are the equal of one as small as I am.”
He laughed too. “I would not! Though it is a small sop to my pride that I am not quite useless.” Then he sat back on his heels and looked at her. “You are very young,” he said slowly. “And your mother is very old. Too old to have a child of your age. Is it magic, or…”
“No, it is not magic.” The girl sat back on her heels, and the face that had been cheerful became sad. “Mother does not bear her daughters. Some she finds abandoned, or lost. Others she takes from homes where they are cruelly treated or neglected. I was one of those. I love Mother for taking me from there, and making me her child. Here I am never hungry, and I am never beaten, and my mother and sisters treat me with love and kindness.”
“I see.” He had seen, of course, that there was little resemblance between the seven daughters, but had wondered if it was a case of their having different fathers… and, quakingly, if that might be the duty that would be asked of him. “Then she is strangely misunderstood, for she is spoken of as cruel and capricious, even vicious, in the stories I have heard.”
“Well, and so she is,” the youngest daughter said calmly. “She is kind to children, always, and any woman truly wronged may find a friend in her, but there are few men indeed to whom she is as kindly inclined as to you.”
“Kindly inclined?” He frowned. “I have never even seen her in all this time.”
“Yes, that is how I know she likes you. If she did not like you, she would have spent the seven days frightening you until you almost died of it, threatening all sorts of terrible penalties if you did not equal our labour.” She chuckled, seeming amused by the thought. “That is what she usually does! But you were so polite and respectful, acknowledging us your betters at our own work, that she has hardly troubled to look at you.”
The youngest brother frowned. “Of course you are better than I am at your own work,” he said, puzzled. “I have never done any of these tasks before. Even had I not been schooled as a warrior, what man could equal a woman at the work she has known all her life, and he never?”
The creaking laugh behind him told him that the Cailleach Foraoise was not so far away, after all, and when he turned to look he found her sitting under one of the small apple trees, turning an apple over and over in her fingers. Behind her, the sunset of the seventh day was painting the sky in streaks of brilliant colour. “It would surprise you,” she said in her harsh voice, “how many men are just such fools as that. Very well, youngling. You’ve done your work well - oh, with no great skill, but you truly made your best effort, and respected those with greater skill than your own, which inclines me to approve of you. Tell me what you came for.”
“My uncle the king is mad, or possessed, or under some terrible curse,” the youngest brother said, rising to bow politely. “He has become cruel and fey, even slaying his own sons, and all his people live in terrible fear and hardship. I came to ask for your aid in ending this state, and returning peace to the land.”
“Indeed. And do you ask me to cure him, or to kill him? Do you seek to be a king, youngster, and take his place?”
“I? No, indeed!” The youngest brother laughed ruefully. “Wise Woman, I’m the youngest of three brothers. It is my eldest brother who is his heir.”
“Oh? Then why is he not here, working to save his kingdom?” The bright eyes were very keen, and once again she seemed to look right through him.
“Why, because he is elsewhere working to save his kingdom,” the youngest brother said readily. “We each went a different way. The eldest went to the next kingdom, to seek aid of our allies, and the next went to the wizard on the hill, and I came here. Three chances of aid are better than one, and where one or two might fail, one might succeed.”
“Well, that’s sound sense,” the Cailleach Foraoise admitted after a moment’s thought. “Only a fool puts all his eggs under one hen.”
“Indeed. And I do not ask you to kill or to cure, for I truly don’t know what to do for the best. If he can be cured, it will be a cruel torment to him to see the terrible things he has done. And yet he is my kinsman, and to seek his death would be a wicked thing.” He spread his hands helplessly. “It seemed to me best to ask you for aid, and trust to one wiser than I to know what truly would be aid, and what would be harm, even with the best of intentions.”
“And if he dies, you cannot be held a kinslayer if you put the matter in my hands, eh?” She laughed her cracked laugh again, and held up a hand when he blushed and tried to speak. “Nay, nay, boy, I don’t think less of you for being cautious. Very well then. I will give you the aid you need - not what you seek, mark you, but what you need - and the price…” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “To earn this boon, you must answer three questions, before my daughters and me, and if we judge your answers both true and pleasing, you will be rewarded. But if you lie, or we are angered by your answers, there will be a price to pay that will be harsh indeed.”
He sweated at that, for it would be no easy task even for him, who so far had pleased them well. And yet she could have charged him to do anything - to catch a magical fish that answered riddles, or to steal seven stars from the sky for her daughters to wear in their hair, or to climb a mountain of glass. Answering three questions, however difficult they might be, was still a light task compared to others he knew she had set. “Yes, Wise Woman, I will do so.”
She brought him to the hall, where all seven of her daughters were seated in a row, on seven chairs, for the youngest had slipped away while he spoke to her mother. The Cailleach Foraoise went to another chair, larger and grander, and sat down in it, folding her gnarled and clawed hands together. “Now, youngster. Three questions you must answer, and mind, you must answer each in brief, not make a speech, and stand by your words, for if you lie my magic will tell it. If my daughters like your answer, they will remain as they are. If even one turns from you, the game is forfeit. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Wise Woman,” he said, and though he was nervous, he cleared his throat and stood straight and tall. “I am ready.”
“Very well. The first question is this.” The witch stared at him, and into him. “Are you a good man?”
It was true what his tutors had told him, that a simple question could be the hardest to answer. He must not boast or seem prideful, and yet to deny goodness might be displeasing too, and he must be entirely truthful and answer in one, at that! For a moment his mind raced, and then he drew a deep breath. “I do my best to be a good man, by my own judgment and knowledge, and I think that no imperfect mortal may claim more than that,” he said steadily.
Several of the daughters smiled, and none turned away. The Cailleach Foraoise nodded approvingly. “Truly answered, and well answered, for no man may answer yes without committing the sin of pride, and yet only a fool would answer no.” Then she smiled, showing too-sharp, too-grey teeth. “The next question, then. Of my daughters, which is the fairest?”
The youngest brother glared at her, for that was an unfair question to ask, before them all, and how to answer without lying and without offense was even harder to work out than the first time. Then a thought came to him, of fair and unfair, and he smiled. “Why, that is hard to say on so short an acquaintance, but I have found them all to be entirely just, for not one blamed me for my lack of skill, knowing I had done my best, but each praised me for working hard.” he said innocently. “Fair and just, indeed, and kind too, for with all my efforts I was a poor helper.”
The oldest actually laughed at that, and the other daughters smiled, and the Cailleach Foraoise laughed her cracked laugh. “Oh, he may twist words to suit himself, I see… but I’ll let it pass, for it’s a true answer and a good answer as well.”
She leaned back in her chair, watching him for a long moment. “A good man, but not a fool. A kind man, but a wary man. Humble enough to labour, but bold enough to lead,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes. You will do. Tell me, which of my daughters will you take for your wife? Think before you answer, for only one answer is the right one.”
This should have been the hardest question of all, and for a moment he was too stunned to do more than gape at her… but as he stared at the daughters, he saw the youngest touch the hand of the girl next to her, who looked nervous, and smile reassuringly. And then he knew what the only right answer could be, and spoke up bravely. “At your command, Wise Woman, I would not marry one of them, for I’ll take no wife forced to have me,” he said, meeting her eyes. “But if there’s one who would wish to have me, and who would be happy with me, then the honour would be mine, for they are all kind, and just, and skilled, and it is a fortunate man who could call any one of them his wife… though the youngest will need a few years yet before he should,” he added, winking at her.
This time, all the daughters laughed, and their mother with them. “Well said, well said!” cried the Cailleach Foraoise, and suddenly she looked far less fearsome, and more kindly. “No man could answer better than that. Very well, then, I will give you your aid, and send you forth to meet your brothers on the road this very night. And when your duty is done, come back - in no more than seven days, mark you - and I will wed you to my daughter Aine.” She drew forth the daughter who had worked with him in the stillroom, who was neither the plainest nor the prettiest, but whose merry eye and bright smile had pleased him well, and whose kindness and wisdom even more so. “She is a princess in her own right, driven out of her land by a usurper, and long have I sought for a man who will do for her, for he must be brave and bold, wise and clever to fight for her rights, and yet he must be one who will not try to push her aside or rule over her, but who is humble enough to allow that a woman may know more than a man, and do her own work better than he does.”
It was the youngest brother’s turn to laugh, and he bowed to the Cailleach Foraoise, and kissed Aine’s hand. “I could not ask for higher praise, or a wife better suited to me,” he said, and was pleased to see her blush and smile. “You have my thanks, Wise Woman… and my promise that I will return.”
And indeed, he did not return in seven days, but in three, and brought his brothers with him to the wedding feast. They celebrated that wedding for three more days, and then the brothers parted again, one to rule his kingdom, and one to apprentice to a wizard, and one to set out with a merry bride and a good horse to claim what was hers, and would be theirs together hereafter.
For the Cailleach Foraoise has seven daughters, but they are not always the same daughters, and whenever one leaves, another is brought to the upside down house in the center of the lake, to find six loving sisters waiting to welcome her, and a home that will be hers until she chooses to leave.
*
Author’s note: No, I don’t know how to pronounce it. Google Translate was unforthcoming.
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a great forest with trees so tall that they shut out the sky, and it was always dark in that place. A single road passed through it, one side to the other, and no wise traveler ever ventured off that road.
In the forest to the east of the road there was a great hill, with a tower on it, and in that tower there lived a wizard. He was solitary and ill-tempered, but if someone in trouble came to him humbly and begged his aid, he did not usually refuse.
In the forest to the west of the road - or so it was said, for it was not visible as the hill and tower were - there was a great dark hollow with a house at the bottom of it, where the forest witch, the Cailleach Foraoise, lived with her seven daughters. She was ill-natured and dangerous, but still, she had been known to give aid to those willing to pay her price.
It happened that the king of the land had grown cruel and dangerous, and he taxed his people to starvation, he poisoned their land and slew any who displeased him. He slew even his own sons, when they defied him, and all went in terror of him. This king had three nephews, the sons of his sister, and they saw that soon they would be in danger from him as well, so they fled his castle by night, and took the road through the dark forest.
When they reached the river that ran through the heart of the forest, they stopped and took counsel of each other. They must do all that they could to save the kingdom and its people, that they agreed, but they debated what that was until the youngest spoke.
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
Amazing Thank you for this awesome story
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
Well this is amazing. So well written…
