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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
Stribor’s Forest
Stribor’s Forest
I
O
NE day a young man went into Stribor’s Forest and did not
know that the Forest was enchanted and that all manner of
magic abode there. Some of its magic was good and some
was bad—to each one according to his deserts.
Now this Forest was to remain enchanted until it should be
entered by someone who preferred his sorrows to all the joys of this
world.
The young man set to and cut wood, and presently sat down on
a stump to rest, for it was a fine winter’s day. And out of the stump
slipped a snake, and began to fawn upon him. Now this wasn’t a real
snake, but a human being transformed into a snake for its sins, and
it could only be set free by one who was willing to wed it. The snake
sparkled like silver in the sun as it looked up into the young man’s
eyes.
“Dear me, what a pretty snake! I should rather like to take it
home,” said the young man in fun.
“Here’s the silly fool who is going to help me out of my trouble,”
thought the sinful soul within the snake. So she made haste and
turned herself at once out of a snake into a most beautiful woman
standing there before the young man. Her sleeves were white and
embroidered like butterflies’ wings, and her feet were tiny like a
countess’s. But because her thoughts had been evil, the tongue in
her mouth remained a serpent’s tongue.
“Here I am! Take me home and marry me!” said the snake-
woman to the youth.
Now if this youth had only had presence of mind and
remembered quickly to brandish his hatchet at her and call out: “I
certainly never thought of wedding a piece of forest magic,” why,
then the woman would at once have turned again into a snake,
wriggled back into the stump, and no harm done to anybody.
But he was one of your good-natured, timid and shy youths;
moreover, he was ashamed to say “No” to her, when she had
transformed herself all on his account. Besides, he liked her because
she was pretty, and he couldn’t know in his innocence what had
remained inside her mouth.
So he took the Woman by the hand and led her home. Now that
youth lived with his old Mother, and he cherished his Mother as
though she were the image of a saint.
“This is your daughter-in-law,” said the youth, as he entered the
house with the Woman.
“The Lord be thanked, my son,” replied his Mother, and looked
at the pretty girl. But the Mother was old and wise, and knew at
once what was inside her daughter-in-law’s mouth.
The daughter-in-law went out to change her dress, and the
Mother said to her son:
“You have chosen a very pretty bride, my boy; only beware, lest
she be a snake.”
The youth was dumbfounded with astonishment. How could his
Mother know that the other had been a snake? And his heart grew
angry within him as he thought: “Surely my Mother is a witch.” And
from that moment he hated his Mother.
So the three began to live together, but badly and discordantly.
The daughter-in-law was ill-tempered, spiteful, greedy and proud.
Now there was a mountain peak there as high as the clouds,
and one day the daughter-in-law bade the old Mother go up and
fetch her snow from the summit for her to wash in.
“There is no path up there,” said the Mother.
“Take the goat and let her guide you. Where she can go up,
there you can tumble down,” said the daughter-in-law.
The son was there at the time, but he only laughed at the
words, simply to please his wife.
This so grieved the Mother that she set out at once for the peak
to fetch the snow, because she was tired of life. As she went her
way she thought to ask God to help her; but she changed her mind
and said: “For then God would know that my son is undutiful.”
But God gave her help all the same, so that she safely brought
the snow back to her daughter-in-law from the cloud-capped peak.
Next day the daughter-in-law gave her a fresh order:
“Go out on to the frozen lake. In the middle of the lake there is
a hole. Catch me a carp there for dinner.”
“The ice will give way under me, and I shall perish in the lake,”
replied the old Mother.
“The carp will be pleased if you go down with him,” said the
daughter-in-law.
And again the son laughed, and the Mother was so grieved that
she went out at once to the lake. The ice cracked under the old
woman, and she wept so that the tears froze on her face. But yet
she would not pray to God for help; she would keep it from God that
her son was sinful.
“It is better that I should perish,” thought the Mother as she
walked over the ice.
But her time had not yet come. And therefore a gull flew over
her head, bearing a fish in its beak. The fish wriggled out of the
gull’s beak and fell right at the feet of the old woman. The Mother
picked up the fish and brought it safely to her daughter-in-law.
On the third day the Mother sat by the fire, and took up her
son’s shirt to mend it. When her daughter-in-law saw that, she flew
at her, snatched the shirt out of her hands, and screamed:
“Stop that, you blind old fool! That is none of your business.”
And she would not let the Mother mend her son’s shirt.
Then the old woman’s heart was altogether saddened, so that
she went outside, sat in that bitter cold on the bench before the
house, and cried to God:
“Oh God, help me!”
At that moment she saw a poor girl coming towards her. The
girl’s bodice was all torn and her shoulder blue with the cold,
because the sleeve had given way. But still the girl smiled, for she
was bright and sweet-tempered. Under her arm she carried a bundle
of kindling-wood.
“Will you buy wood for kindling, Mother?” asked the girl.
“I have no money, my dear; but if you like I will mend your
sleeve,” sadly returned the old Mother, who was still holding the
needle and thread with which she had wanted to mend her son’s
shirt.
So the old Mother mended the girl’s sleeve, and the girl gave
her a bundle of kindling-wood, thanked her kindly, and went on
happy because her shoulder was no longer cold.
II
That evening the daughter-in-law said to the Mother:
“We are going out to supper with godmother. Mind you have hot
water for me when I come back.”
The daughter-in-law was greedy and always on the look-out to
get invited for a meal.
So the others went out, and the old woman was left alone. She
took out the kindling-wood which the poor girl had given her, lit the
fire on the hearth, and went into the shed for wood.
As she was in the shed fetching the wood, she suddenly heard
something in the kitchen a-bustling and a-rustling—“hist, hist!”
“Whoever is that?” called the old Mother from the shed.
“Brownies! Brownies!” came the answer from the kitchen in
voices so tiny, for all the world like sparrows chirping under the roof.
The old woman wondered what on earth was going on there in
the dark, and went into the kitchen. And when she got there the
kindling-chips just flared up on the hearth, and round the flame
there were Brownies dancing in a ring—all tiny little men no bigger
than half an ell. They wore little fur coats; their caps and shoes were
red as flames; their beards were grey as ashes, and their eyes
sparkled like live coal.
More and more of them danced out of the flames, one for each
chip. And as they appeared they laughed and chirped, turned
somersaults on the hearth, twittered with glee, and then took hands
and danced in a ring.
And how they danced! Round the hearth, in the ashes, under
the cupboard, on the table, in the jug, on the chair! Round and
round! Faster and faster! They chirped and they chattered, chased
and romped all over the place. They scattered the salt; they spilt the
barm; they upset the flour—all for sheer fun. The fire on the hearth
blazed and shone, crackled and glowed; and the old woman gazed
and gazed. She never regretted the salt nor the barm, but was glad
of the jolly little folk whom God had sent to comfort her.
It seemed to the old woman as though she were growing young
again. She laughed like a dove; she tripped like a girl; she took
hands with the Brownies and danced. But all the time there was the
load on her heart, and that was so heavy that the dance stopped at
once.
“Little brothers,” said the Mother to the Brownies, “can you not
help me to get a sight of my daughter-in-law’s tongue, so that when
I can show my son what I have seen with my own eyes he will
perhaps come to his senses?”
And the old woman told the Brownies all that had happened.
The Brownies sat round the edge of the hearth, their little feet thrust
under the grate, each wee mannikin beside his neighbour, and
listened to the old woman, all wagging their heads in wonder. And as
they wagged their heads, their red caps caught the glow of the fire,
and you’d have thought there was nothing there but the fire burning
on the hearth.
When the old woman had finished her story, one of the
Brownies called out, and his name was Wee Tintilinkie:
“I will help you! I will go to the sunshiny land and bring you
magpies’ eggs. We will put them under the sitting hen, and when
the magpies are hatched your daughter-in-law will betray herself.
She will crave for little magpies like any ordinary forest snake, and
so put out her tongue.”
All the Brownies twittered with joy because Wee Tintilinkie had
thought of something so clever. They were still at the height of their
glee when in came the daughter-in-law from supper with a cake for
herself.
She flew to the door in a rage to see who was chattering in the
kitchen. But just as she opened the door, the door went bang! the
flame leapt, up jumped the Brownies, gave one stamp all round the
hearth with their tiny feet, rose up above the flames, flew up to the
roof,—the boards in the roof creaked a bit, and the Brownies were
gone!
Only Wee Tintilinkie did not run away, but hid among the ashes.
When the flame leapt so unexpectedly and the door banged to,
the daughter-in-law got a start, so that for sheer fright she plumped
on the floor like a sack. The cake broke in her hand; her hair came
down, combs and all; her eyes goggled, and she called out angrily:
“What was that, you old wretch?”
“The wind blew up the flame when the door opened,” said the
Mother, and kept her wits about her.
“And what is that among the ashes?” said the daughter-in-law
again. For from the ashes peeped the red heel of Wee Tintilinkie’s
shoe.
“That is a live ember,” said the Mother.
However, the daughter-in-law would not believe her, but, all
dishevelled as she was, she got up and went over to see close to
what was on the hearth. As she bent down with her face over the
ashes Wee Tintilinkie quickly let out with his foot, so that his heel
caught the daughter-in-law on the nose. The Woman screamed as if
she were drowning in the sea; her face was all over soot, and her
tumbled hair all smothered with ashes.
“What was that, you miserable old woman?” hissed the
daughter-in-law.
“A chestnut bursting in the fire,” answered the Mother; and Wee
Tintilinkie in the ashes almost split with laughter.
While the daughter-in-law went out to wash, the Mother
showed Wee Tintilinkie where the daughter-in-law had set the hen,
so as to have little chickens for Christmas. That very night Wee
Tintilinkie fetched magpies’ eggs and put them under the hen
instead of hens’ eggs.
III
The daughter-in-law bade the Mother take good care of the hen
and to tell her at once whenever the chickens were hatched.
Because the daughter-in-law intended to invite the whole village to
come and see that she had chickens at Christmas, when nobody else
had any.
In due time the magpies were hatched. The Mother told her
daughter-in-law that the chickens had come out, and the daughter-
in-law invited the village. Gossips and neighbours came along, both
great and small, and the old woman’s son was there too. The Wife
told her mother-in-law to fetch the nest and bring it into the
passage.
The Mother brought in the nest, lifted off the hen, and behold,
there was something chirping in the nest. The naked magpies
scrambled out, and hop, hop, hopped all over the passage.
When the Snake-Woman so unexpectedly caught sight of
magpies, she betrayed herself. Her serpent’s nature craved its prey;
she darted down the passage after the little magpies and shot out
her thin quivering tongue at them as she used to do in the Forest.
Gossips and neighbours screamed and crossed themselves, and
took their children home, because they realised that the woman was
indeed a snake from the Forest.
But the Mother went up to her son full of joy.
“Take her back to where you brought her from, my son. Now
you have seen with your own eyes what it is you are cherishing in
your house;” and the Mother tried to embrace her son.
But the son was utterly infatuated, so that he only hardened
himself the more against the village, and against his Mother, and
against the evidence of his own eyes. He would not turn away the
Snake-Woman, but cried out upon his Mother:
“Where did you get young magpies at this time of year, you old
witch? Be off with you out of my house!”
Eh, but the poor Mother saw that there was no help for it. She
wept and cried, and only begged her son not to turn her out of the
house in broad daylight for all the village to see what manner of son
she had reared.
So the son allowed his Mother to stay in the house until
nightfall.
When evening came, the old Mother put some bread into her
bag, and a few of those kindling-chips which the poor girl had given
her, and then she went weeping and sobbing out of her son’s house.
But as the Mother crossed the threshold, the fire went out on
the hearth, and the crucifix fell from the wall. Son and daughter-in-
law were left alone in the darkened cottage. And now the son felt
that he had sinned greatly against his Mother, and he repented
bitterly. But he did not dare to speak of it to his wife, because he
was afraid. So he just said:
“Let’s follow Mother and see her die of cold.”
Up jumped the wicked daughter-in-law, overjoyed, and fetched
their fur coats, and they dressed and followed the old woman from
afar.
The poor Mother went sadly over the snow, by night, over the
fields. She came to a wide stubble-field, and there she was so
overcome by the cold that she could go no farther. So she took the
kindling-wood out of her bag, scraped the snow aside, and fit a fire
to warm herself by.
But lo! no sooner had the chips caught fire than the Brownies
came out of them, just the same as on the household hearth!
They skipped out of the fire and all round in the snow, and the
sparks flew about them in all directions into the night.
The poor old woman was so glad she could almost have cried
for joy because they had not forsaken her on her way. And the
Brownies crowded round her, laughed and whistled.
“Oh, dear Brownies,” said the Mother, “I don’t want to be
amused just now; help me in my sore distress!”
Then she told the Brownies how her silly son had grown still
more bitter against her since even he and all the village had come to
know that his wife truly had a serpent’s tongue:
“He has turned me away; help me if you can.”
For a while the Brownies were silent, for a while their little
shoes tapped the snow, and they did not know what to advise.
At last Wee Tintilinkie said:
“Let’s go to Stribor, our master. He always knows what to do.”
And at once Wee Tintilinkie shinned up a hawthorn-tree; he
whistled on his fingers, and out of the dark and over the stubble-
field there came trotting towards them a stag and twelve squirrels!
They set the old Mother on the stag, and the Brownies got on
the twelve squirrels, and off they went to Stribor’s Forest.
Away and into the night they rode. The stag had mighty antlers
with many points, and at the end of each point there burned a little
star. The stag gave light on the way, and at his heels sped the
twelve squirrels, each squirrel with eyes that shone like two
diamonds. They sped and they fled, and far behind them toiled the
daughter-in-law and her husband, quite out of breath.
So they came to Stribor’s Forest, and the stag carried the old
woman through the forest.
Even in the dark the daughter-in-law knew that this was
Stribor’s Forest, where she had once before been enchanted for her
sins. But she was so full of spite that she could not think of her new
sins nor feel fear because of them, but triumphed all the more to
herself and said: “Surely the simple old woman will perish in this
Forest amid all the magic!” and she ran still faster after the stag.
But the stag carried the Mother before Stribor. Now Stribor was
lord of that Forest. He dwelt in the heart of the Forest, in an oak so
huge that there was room in it for seven golden castles, and a
village all fenced about with silver. In front of the finest of the
castles sat Stribor himself on a throne, arrayed in a cloak of scarlet.
“Help this old woman, who is being destroyed by her serpent
daughter-in-law,” said the Brownies to Stribor, after both they and
the Mother had bowed low before him. And they told him the whole
story. But the son and daughter-in-law crept up to the oak, and
looked and listened through a wormhole to see what would happen.
When the Brownies had finished, Stribor said to the old woman:
“Fear nothing, Mother! Leave your daughter-in-law. Let her
continue in her wickedness until it shall bring her again to the state
from which she freed herself too soon. As for yourself, I can easily
help you. Look at yonder village, fenced about with silver.”
The Mother looked, and lo! it was her own native village, where
she had lived when she was young, and in the village there was
holiday and merry-making. Bells were ringing, fiddles playing, flags
waving, and songs resounding.
“Cross the fence, clap your hands, and you will at once regain
your youth. You will remain in your village to be young and blithe
once more as you were fifty years ago,” said Stribor.
At that the old woman was glad as never before in her life. She
ran to the fence; already her hand was on the silver gate, when she
suddenly bethought herself of something, and asked Stribor:
“And what will become of my son?”
“Don’t talk foolishness, old woman!” replied Stribor. “How would
you know about your son? He will remain in this present time, and
you will go back to your youth. You will know nothing about any
son!”
When the old woman heard that, she considered sadly. And
then she turned slowly away from the gate, went back to Stribor,
bowed low before him, and said:
“I thank you, kind lord, for all the favour you would show me.
But I would rather abide in my misery and know that I have a son
than that you should give me all the riches and happiness in the
world and I forget my son.”
As the Mother said this, the whole Forest rang again. There was
an end to the magic in Stribor’s Forest, because the Mother
preferred her sorrows to all the joys of this world.
The entire Forest quaked, the earth fell in, and the huge oak,
with its castles and its silver-fenced village, sank underground.
Stribor and the Brownies vanished, the daughter-in-law gave a
shriek, turned into a snake, wriggled away down a hole, and Mother
and Son were left alone side by side in the middle of the Forest.
The son fell on his knees before his mother, kissed the hem of
her garment and her sleeve, and then he lifted her up in his arms
and carried her back to their home, which they happily reached by
daybreak.
The son prayed God and his Mother to forgive him. God forgave
him, and his Mother had never been angry with him.
Later on the young man married that poor but sweet girl who
had brought the Brownies to their house. They are all three living
happily together to this day, and Wee Tintilinkie loves to visit their
hearth of a winter’s evening.
Little Brother Primrose and Sister Lavender
Little Brother Primrose and Sister Lavender
I
T
HE stronghold of a wise and noble princess was attacked by her
enemies. The princess could not gather together her large and
faithful army quickly enough to defend her castle, but had to
fly by night with her little prince in her arms.
So she fled all through the night, and at daybreak they reached
the foot of grisly Mount Kitesh, which was on the border of the
principality.
At that time there were no more dragons anywhere in the
world, nor fairies, nor witches, nor any monsters. The Holy Cross
and human reason had driven them forth. But in the fastnesses of
Mount Kitesh the last of the Fiery Dragons had found a refuge, and
seven Votaress Fairies attended upon him. That is why Mount Kitesh
was so grisly. But at the foot of the mountain lay a quiet valley.
There dwelt the shepherdess Miloika in her little willow cabin, and
tended her flock.
To that very valley came the princess at dawn with her baby,
and when she saw Miloika sitting outside her cabin she went up to
her and begged: “Hide me and the little prince in your cabin through
the day. At nightfall I will continue my flight with the prince.” Miloika
made the fugitives welcome, gave them ewes’ milk to drink, and hid
them in her cabin.
As evening approached, the kind and noble princess said: “I
must go on now with the prince. But will you take my Golden Girdle
and the prince’s little Gold Cross on a red ribbon? If our enemies
should chance to find us they would know us by the Girdle and the
Cross. Put these two things by and take good care of them in your
little cabin. When my faithful captains have gathered together an
army and driven out the enemy, I shall return to my castle and there
you shall be my dear friend and companion.”
“Your companion I cannot be, noble princess,” said Miloika, “for
I am not your equal either by birth or understanding. But I will take
care of your Girdle and your Cross, because in time of real sorrow
and trouble even the heart of a beggar can be companion to the
heart of a king.”
As she said this, Miloika received the Girdle and the Cross from
the princess for safe keeping, and the princess took up the little
prince and went out and away with him into the night, which was so
dark that you could not tell grass from stone, nor field from sea.
II
Many years passed, but the princess did not return to her lands
nor to her castle.
Her great army and her illustrious captains were so disloyal that
they all immediately went over to her enemies. And so the enemy
conquered the lands of the good and noble princess, and settled
down in her castle.
No one knew or could discover what had become of the
princess and the little prince. Most probably her escape on that dark
night had ended by her falling into the sea, or over a precipice, or
perishing in some other way with her baby.
But Miloika the shepherdess faithfully kept the Golden Girdle of
the princess and the prince’s little Gold Cross.
The smartest and wealthiest swains of the village came to ask
Miloika to marry them, because the Golden Girdle and the little Gold
Cross on the red ribbon were worth as much as ten villages. But
Miloika would have none of them for her husband, saying: “You
come because of the Golden Girdle and the little Cross; but they are
not mine, and I must take better care of them than of my sheep or
my cabin.”
So said Miloika, and chose a penniless and gentle youth to be
her husband, who cared nothing about the Girdle and Cross of Gold.
They lived in great poverty, and at times there was neither
bread nor meal in the house, but they never thought of selling either
Girdle or Cross.
Within a few years Miloika’s husband fell ill and died; and not
long afterwards a sore sickness came upon Miloika, and she knew
that she too must die. So she called her two children, her little
daughter Lavender and her still smaller son Primrose, and gave them
each a keepsake. Round Lavender’s waist she bound the Golden
Girdle, and round Primrose’s neck she hung the Gold Cross on the
red ribbon. And Miloika said:
“Farewell, my children! You will be left alone in this world, and I
have taught you but little craft or skill; but with God’s help, what I
have taught you will just suffice for your childish needs. Cleave to
one another, and guard as a sacred trust what your mother gave
into your keeping, and then I shall always remain with you.” Thus
spoke the mother, and died.
Lavender and Primrose were so little that they did not know
how their mother had come by the Girdle and Cross, and still less did
they understand the meaning of their mother’s words. But they just
sat side by side by their dead mother like two poor little orphans and
waited to see what would become of them.
Presently the good folk of the village came along and said that
Miloika would have to be buried next day.
III
But that was not the only thing that happened next day. For
when the people came back from the funeral, they all went into the
house to gossip, and only Lavender and Primrose remained outside,
because they still fancied that their mother would yet somehow
come back to them.
Suddenly a huge Eagle pounced down upon them from the sky,
knocked Lavender down, caught her by the Girdle with his talons,
and carried her off into the clouds.
The Eagle flew away with Lavender to his eyrie, high up on
Mount Kitesh.
It did not hurt Lavender at all to fly along like that, hanging by
her Gold Girdle. She was only sorry at being parted from her only
brother, and kept on thinking: “Why didn’t the Eagle take Primrose
too!”
So they flew over Mount Kitesh, and there, all of a sudden,
Lavender saw what neither she nor anyone else of the inhabitants of
the valley had ever seen; for everyone avoided the grisly mountains,
and of those who had happened to stray into them not one had ever
returned. What Lavender saw was this: all the seven Votaress Fairies
who waited upon the Fiery Dragon assembled together upon a rock.
They called themselves Votaresses because they had vowed, as the
last of the fairy kin, to take vengeance upon the human race.
The Fairies looked up, and there was the eagle carrying a little
girl. Now the Fairies and the Eagles had made a bargain between
them that each should bring his prey to that rock, and there hold a
prizecourt upon the rock to settle what was to be done with the prey
and who was to have it. And for that reason the rock was called
Share-spoil.
So the Fairies called out to the Eagle:
“Ho, brother Klickoon! come and alight on Share-spoil!”
But luckily the bargain was no sounder than the parties to it.
The Eagle Klickoon had taken a fancy to Lavender, so he did not
keep to the bargain, nor would he alight on Share-spoil, but carried
Lavender on to his eyrie for his eaglets to play with.
But he had to fly right across the summit of the Mountain,
because his eyrie was on the far side.
Now, on the top of the Mountain there was a lake, and in the
lake there was an island, and on the island there was a little old
chapel. Around the lake was a tiny meadow, and all round the
meadow ran a furrow ploughed in days of old. Across this furrow
neither the Dragon, nor the Fairies, nor any monster of the Mountain
could pass. About the lake bloomed flowers, and spread their
perfume; there doves took refuge, and nightingales, and all gentle
creatures from the mountains.
Neither clouds nor mist hung over the holy furrow-surrounded
Lake; but evermore the sun and moon in turn shed their light upon
it.
As Klickoon flew over the Lake with Lavender, she caught sight
of the chapel. And as she caught sight of the chapel, she
remembered her mother; and as she remembered her mother, she
pressed her hand to her heart; and as she pressed her hand to her
heart, her mother’s trust, the Golden Girdle, came undone upon
Lavender.
The Girdle came undone; Lavender dropped from the Eagle’s
talons straight into the Lake, and the Girdle after her. Lavender
caught hold of the Golden Girdle and stepped over the reeds, and
the water-lilies, and the water-weeds, and the rushes to the island.
There she sat down on a stone outside the chapel. But Klickoon flew
on like a whirlwind in a rage, because he could not come near the
Holy Lake.
Lavender was safe enough now, for nothing evil could reach her
across the furrow. But what was the good of that, when the poor
little child was all alone on the top of the grisly Mount Kitesh, and
none could come to her, and she could not get away?
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