Tag: Fairy Tale

Posted in Flash Fiction

Fiction: The Mountain Lord

Posted on by C.M. Wellsmore

Gunter examined the horizon from his current spot. He was traveling to the city on a mission from his father. The merchant wished to expand his business and had decided to send one of his sons to establish a shop in a city on the far side of the mountains. It was to be an arduous journey, and Gunter was the only son who volunteered.

Gunter was eager to set out on his own. The young man was in need of an adventure. He felt stifled beneath his older brothers, both successful in their own industries. He wanted to make his father proud and set out at once. Though familiar with the forest he crossed through, he had not been as far as the mountains, and was excited for the journey. His father had been dubious, as Gunter had never really shown himself responsible. However, with no other options, he allowed his son the chance at independence.

When he arrived at the base of the mountain, the locals tried their best to turn him away. They told him that the mountains were cursed, and any who went up were not heard from again. Strange music could be heard from time to time, floating on the wind from those peaks, and there were several occasions the weather over the pass was completely different to the weather over town.

Gunter thanked them for their concern, but fearing further delay, he continued on. A few of the locals accompanied him to the base of the mountain before leaving him to his journey. He traveled along a small road for many hours, which gave way to a dirt track before turning to rock entirely. He was unused to the physical exertion, having led a very comfortable life as the son of a wealthy merchant. He did not regret his choice and was confident of reaching the next town with ease.

As night fell, Gunter decided to make camp on a large shelf jutting out from the mountain. He was still low on the rise, and the wind was barely noticeable. After a small meal he retired for the night, sleeping soundly with the sounds of the woods to soothe him

When he awoke, his eyes landed on a figure seated across the now cold fire from him. Gunter jumped up in shock. The ridge he lay on, while low, was simply too high for a man of his advanced years, as the stranger was quite clearly elderly. His visage was not welcoming. His back was bent, and all of his skin sagged. His grey mane stuck out in all directions. His beard was just as unruly and hid a smile that was far from comforting.

His tattered, oversized robe matched his hair and seemed to billow with a wind that was not present. His eyes, however, were his most striking feature. Deep blue and impossible to read, they stood out vividly against the grey visage. When he was able to tear his gaze away from those eyes, Gunter noticed the harp, half as tall as the stranger’s torso, which the man kept close to him. Made from silver and tinged with a blue sheen, the strings appeared to glow in the morning light.

As his eyes came to rest on the harp, the elderly man began to speak. A low rumble in the air met his words, as he introduced himself as The Lord of the Mountain. His voice, he said, commanded the winds, his moods shaped the clouds, and his temper could flare the wildest storms. He had guarded the mountain for centuries. Gunter backed toward the mountain, unsure if he believed the man, but wary all the same. He told Gunter not to fear, it had been many years since the last visitor, and he was eager to hear Gunter’s tale.

Gunter explained his father’s mission to found a new shop in a city over the ridge. The Mountain Lord seemed amused by the young man’s loyalty to his family. He told Gunter that though he can cover the mountains in a fog so dense none can see through, and storms so violent the very ground is torn, he had a longing for companionship. He had met many travelers over the years, though few he could say he was fond of. To amuse himself, he began to invent games to play with them.

As the old man spoke, the day brightened, and the land took on a vivid hue. Gunter was very afraid. The Mountain Lord stated that he is a fair man, and so each game, while different from the last, can be won by travelers if they are determined enough. He invited Gunter to play such a game with him. If Gunter won, he would give him his storm harp. Gunter’s eyes fell on the instrument again, and he thought of the price it would fetch in town.

‘This is no ordinary harp.” The Mountain Lord explained, “with it I control all weather on the mountain, it will bring gales wherever you summon. This power I would give you freely…if you win.” Here the old man smiled. “But, if you lose, you will remain on this mountain forever.”

Gunter hesitated, as he did not trust this elderly man at all. He also feared this game would delay him longer than his father had patience for. He went to speak his mind, but the elder man interrupted him

“Or, you could leave, though I would be very upset if you did”. The air crackled as the old man spoke the last sentence. The air grew cooler, and Gunter’s fear rose. He accepted the old man’s invitation as thunder began to rumble along the ridge when he clapped his hands.

“Excellent! The game is simple. All you must do to win, is to make it from one side of the mountain pass to the other, a journey you were already making anyway. However,…” the old man leaned forward and his smile deepened, “the mountain very much wants you here, I imagine it will try to confuse you.” The laugh the old man gave was so sinister Gunter was left feeling cold despite the heat of the sun. The Lord of the Mountain disappeared.

Gunter sat immovable for a time. He heard the words of the locals returning to him. Why had no one mentioned this mountain spirit? Perhaps none of them knew, and he wondered if any of them had ever been up the pass. As the sun reached its noon point, he realized he had not yet broken camp. Whether for this odd game or his father, he needed to continue. He packed up what belongings he had and started up the rise.

As the afternoon wore on, Gunter spotted a small goat looking at him from a boulder at the mouth of the pass. The grey shaggy thing watched him intently as he passed beneath the ledge it sat on. Gunter felt unnerved by the beast, though he could not have explained why. The terrain grew rougher as he walked, and he paused as the road before him split, one path becoming quite narrow as it rose higher towards the peak, the other continuing level as far as the eye could see.

Gunter had not been advised of a split and was debating between the two when the earth began to vibrate. Small rocks began to bounce and dance around his feet. Fear caught him and when several larger rocks came crashing down, he realized he was experiencing a landslide. He had heard of such things, but it had not prepared him. He watched helplessly as the land itself made ripping noises, though one sound could be heard over it all.

The shaggy goat began to bray, and Gunter watched as it took off along the rising path. In his shock, he followed it up, and the goat seemed to slow down for him. Gunter dodged boulders as big as his torso that crashed around him. He ran as best he could in the small beast’s wake.

The goat led him to a cave high up the mountainside. Gunter huddled in the cave, tense and fearful. He was terrified the cave mouth would be covered, or the ceiling collapse, but going back outside was simply not an option. The fierce wind howled, but he could now hear the ground as it removed its top layer, shedding rock as though it were a blanket. It seemed as though the mountain would crush him and continued for what felt like an eternity. Gunter closed his eyes and thought of home.

All of a sudden, the noise stopped. Gunter opened his eyes and saw that the goat had disappeared during the slide. He also noted he could see light again. The land looked far too bright in the afternoon sun. He gathered what had not been lost in his mad run and took in his surroundings. The landscape had been badly torn up. He looked for a way down, failed and resigned himself to the steeper path.

The path did level out after a few hours, and Gunter carried along at a brisk pace. As the afternoon rolled on, the path grew less clear, and a mist rolled in. It started as a light haze, but by late afternoon the mist was so thick the path was obscured. His progress slowed considerably, as he crept along unable to see more than a meter in front of himself.

Straining to see, Gunter spotted a light in the distance. He watched as it appeared to float towards him, before stopping to hover before his face. Bewildered, he followed the light when it took off in the direction it had come from. He was thinking of the goat, hoping this was similar help. When he began to stub his boots on tree roots and walked directly into a tree, he knew the light had led him off the path. He also knew he could not find the path again on his own, so he helplessly continued to follow the little bobbing spark. He feared the light a trick, as the light increased pace the rougher the terrain became. Gunter knew if he lost it, he was lost, as tried his best to keep up.

As night fell, another light appeared through the fog. The bobbing light stopped in front of a parting in the trees, and Gunter realized the fog was dispersing. The light, he saw was the moon. He had not realized how much time had passed as he wandered through the mist, and he was excited when he realized where he was.

Looking through the trees, he could see he had reached the other side of the mountain. The pass lay below him, and if he went carefully down, he would be able to reach it by morning. Gunter almost yelped in excitement, as he saw how close he was to his goal now. He made the decision not to make camp, but to ease his way downwards, the moonlight making the landscape easy to navigate.

As he descended, he thought he could hear the faint sounds of music. He could not place the tune, nor see where it came from. The music reminded him of something. As it rose in volume, he began to think of home. He thought of the woods he grew up in, and the smell of the kitchens at home. The music’s sweet melody took his memory back to hauling a yule tree home, and the happy faces of his family. Gunter began to weep softly, as he thought of the pride his father was sure to feel for him, and a vision of himself in charge of a shop made of a state of bliss he had not felt in many months.

Just as his vision saw him head of his own estate, Gunter heard a sharp crack, and watched as a fork of lightning landed beside him. In an instant the vision disappeared, just in time for Gunter to see he was about to walk off an overhand of rock. The music roared into a wild thrumming of strings and cascades of rain as the thunder and storm winds gave off a racked as though at war with one another. Gunter lunged for a nearby tree, clinging for all his strength as gale winds threatened to rip it from the ground.

The storm rose around Gunter, howling and buffeting him against the trees. His fingers were white and cramped, his muscles screaming with the strain of hanging on. His last vision was of the old man, The Mountain Lord. He appeared as a giant astride the huge thundercloud he rode. His hair flailed in the wind and his eyes shone with the fury of the tempest. The man began to laugh, a vicious sound of grating rock echoing in all directions. Gunter’s hands lost their grip, allowing the wind to hurl him into the rockface. Then all he knew was darkness.

Upon waking, Gunter was seized by the light. The sun shone so bright the landscape appeared pure white for a moment. He was startled by how quiet everything was after the chaos of the night before. Looking around, he realized he was still on the ledge, the tree broken in half on the ground beside him. He felt stiff and cold, but euphoria flowed through him as he sat up slowly, which mingled with triumph when he saw how close to the edge of the pass he was. Not even the sight of the Mountain Lord watching him could dampen his spirits. He got up slowly and began to laugh.

“I won!” Gunter exclaimed, “I made it to the other side! Now for my prize!” and he held out a hand to the old man, with his eyes on the harp. The Mountain Lord only laughed in response and pointed over the ledge to a dark spot on the ground

Gunter felt his heart sink into his chest. He hesitated but looked to where he was pointing and saw what appeared to be a person on the ground below. He followed the old man down to the figure, not fearing a fall, as he feared what he would see when he arrived far more.

Gunter looked down at his mangled body in horror. His body was bent in strange angles, and the ground was dark beneath it. He could not take in what he was seeing. He did not feel dead, and yet there he was.

“Some people,” said the Mountain Lord, “cling to life so much, they miss the moment of their own death.” and then he laughed. The old man disappeared still laughing, as Gunter looked at his body with dread, realizing he would never leave the mountain.

Posted in Fiction

Fiction: Lady Hollen’s Well

Posted on by C.M. Wellsmore

Freida arrived at the well as dawn set in. Each day, she carried a basket of wool and would spin beside the well. She had done this since her father died, leaving her with her stepmother and half-sister Greta. 

Freida’s stepmother was a lazy woman, raising her daughter to be the same. The majority of the housework fell to Freida. Each morning, she would head out with basket and pail, before the sun had even risen and would make her way to the well.

The well was not far from their house at the edge of the woods. It was not theirs, the well having been present when the family arrived. It was markedly old, crumbling in places, yet it stood fast year after year. None had ever made mention of it, and so the family continued to use it.

Freida loved the birds that would gather in the trees surrounding the well. She enjoyed this time away from the complaints of her half-sister or the insults of her stepmother. She would complete her spinning for the day seated next to the well, listening to their birdsong. She would then draw from the well, offering a silent apology and her gratitude to whoever had made it.

On the day of her 16th birthday, Freida was enjoying the dawn birdcall, when she scratched her finger on the small spindle. She quickly tried to wash her finger in the well, lest the blood stain the wool, and dropped the spindle into the water.

Freida was beside herself. She knew if she returned home without the spindle she would be beaten. Her panic gave way to fear as the well began to glow. The water swirled, mesmerizing her and she was pulled inward, falling into the cold water.

Despite frantically swimming upwards, Freida was drawn deeper into the well by some unseen force. She kicked and fought with all her might, her head throbbing the deeper she went. She was still sinking when unconsciousness overcame her.

When she came to, she rose, gently holding her still sore head. The soft light of the early morning light a wondrous vista. She stood in the same spot, yet the forest appeared to almost glow and hum so vibrant it was. The flowers were so rich in hue and the animals so peaceful she knew she was nowhere near home.

All at once she remembered the spindle, the well and her descent. Nowhere in the beauty of the surrounding woods could the well be seen. Freida was fearful but found her courage to look for a way out.

She heard crying and stopped in a copse of apple trees to investigate the sound. She was surprised to find a gnome sitting on the ground, howling in despair. She asked the little man what was wrong, and he told her that he had been hungry for days but had been unable to get to the fruit above him. His stomach growled as he spoke, moving Freida’s pity.

Freida climbed one of the trees and reached out to the closest apple. She tugged and tugged but the apple held firm. She moved her leg to get a better grip and found herself slipping. She held onto the apple as hard as she could, dangling from the fruit. The whole branch snapped, taking her and the apples with her.

The little gnome was overjoyed and thanked her, taking the fruit that now broke away easily and eating noisily. As he was leaving, he told her to look for a cottage near the base of the hills, where a witch lived that would always reward good deeds.

Freida decided to find the witch and started off towards the base of the hills. Along the way she was frequently amazed at the sights before her. Never had she been in a forest so teeming with life. She found this did not make her afraid. The forest was inviting, and she felt comfortable. 

Further along, the forest gave way to golden fields and the sound of a young girl’s sobs. Freida sought for the source of the sound and found it in a mill. The young girl sat surrounded by baskets of wheat and a small millstone. Freida approached the girl, who looked up with wild eyes full of tears.

“If I do not mill this harvest, I will be beaten. My father gave me until noontide, but I cannot mill so much as one basket!” The girl began crying again, and Freida felt moved to help her. The two of them set to work, the young girl eagerly accepting Freida’s help.

It was quickly apparent that her help would not be enough. Try as they might, the stone would not budge. Freida tried pushing, pulling and dug her heels into the ground. Still the stone did not move. With a final shove her hand slipped along the rod, slicing into her palm. Blood smeared along the handle.

Freida prepared to admit defeat to the girl when the sound of grinding began behind her. Turning around she saw the millstone move steadily, though none touched the handle. She stood stunned for a moment, and then looked at the girl who wore her own look of shock.

“The wheat!” The two girls hurriedly ran through each basket until all was the finest of flour. As noon arrived Freida bid the young girl goodbye. As she was leaving, the girl told her of a witch who lived at the base of the mountains, who would always reward good deeds.

Freida carried on, her stomach reminding her now that she had not eaten today. As she crested the first rise she found the cottage. It was a sturdy log building, with an inviting column of smoke rising from the chimney. The fragrance of well-seasoned meat teased at her and she increased her pace towards that warmth.

The door opened as she made it to the front porch. A withered old woman stepped out to greet her. The old lady smiled brightly and Freida thought she was the kindest looking woman she had ever met. The sun began to set as the woman invited Freida to tea.

She introduced herself as Lady Hollen. She said she was the caretaker of the woods. Freida explained her story, and Lady Hollen invited her to stay the night in exchange for aid with a chore or two. Freida readily accepted.

The old woman took her to the sleeping area and asked her to make the bed. She told Freida that no matter how neat the bed seemed, it could not be properly complete until feathers flew from the pillows and blankets when shaken. 

“And I will know.” She winked at Freida, picked up her basket and moved to the next room.

Freida carefully laid the sheets, then picked up the blanket for shaking. She raised it high in the air and not one feather flew from it. She tried again and again, shaking as hard as she could to no avail. She tried shaking lightly in case there was a trick to the blanket. After what felt like hours she had still not seen one feather. 

She carried on, growing more and more forceful with the blanket. She began to sway from the shaking and began to hum in a rhythm. Her eyes and her mind began to wander. 

Freida felt a cold creep in around her and saw to her delight snow falling around her. She blinked away a flake from her lashes and watched it change into a feather before her. She took a moment to work out what was happening, and then quickly finished making the bed. Lady Hollen arrived and the pair retired to dinner.

The two spoke of many things. Lady Hollen told Freida that she controlled the forest and all in it. She changed the weather and watched over every soul within. She told her how the seasons turned at her will and how her children the huldrafolk hunt. She told her about her mill, deep in the dark woods, and how she would take the soul of a life just ended, and grind it through, preparing it for the next life.

Freida told her of the day’s events, for which Lady Hollen praised her. She told her of her life at home, and how she longed to get away from the tyranny of her stepmother. Lady Hollen listened in silence as Freida spoke. When the tale was told, she said that a good heart shines and that a caring soul such as herself would find they were taken care of.

In the morning, Freida told Lady Hollen that she wished to return. Lady Hollen was surprised that the girl would want to return to that house and asked her if she would like to stay instead.

“I thank you; you’ve been so kind to me. But I must return, if only to answer for the lost spindle.” The old woman embraced Freida and offered to take her to the well. The dawn turned into morning as they walked, with Freida fretting over confessing to her mother. Lady Hollen simply repeated that all would be well.

When the well came into view, Freida embraced Lady Hollen again. The old woman told her to keep her heart good, then said she could find her way back if she jumped in the well. Freida was hesitant, remembering the first time. Lady Hollen smiled.

“The way back you’ll find much easier.” She winked at Freida and turned to head back to the cottage.

Freida took the plunge, surprised to find the water warm and inviting. She found herself sinking again and tried to relax into it. A few moments later she was unconscious.

When Freida awoke, she was surprised to see the forest covered in snow. She was beside the well familiar to her and though it had been morning when she left, she found it was dusk now, rapidly falling into evening.

On the ground beside her lay four curious things. There was an apple sapling, already laden with fruit. There was a small millstone no bigger than her head, which moved on its own. There was a pillow of a similar size to the millstone, which dropped gold pieces when Freida shook it. And finally, there was the spindle she had lost in the well, now pure white. Freda was overjoyed, and ran as fast as she could for home, laboring under the weight.

Freida’s stepmother was furious at first as Freida entered the home, but quickly turned pleasant and the girl shared what she found. For the briefest of moments Freida was welcomed and praised, until the stepmother began to think of her own daughter. Freida was made to tell the story of the land beyond the well several times. She asked Freida question after question, attempting to forge a plan for Greta to obtain the same riches.

After the girls had fallen asleep, the stepmother set to work. She sharpened the end of the spindle to a fine point. In the morning she set out with Greta to the well and instructed the girl to spin wool. Greta sighed and began her work, though with far less skill and enthusiasm than Freida. She became frequently distracted and it did not take her long to prick her finger on the spindle point.

Fed up, Greta tossed the spindle into the well. She was stunned when the water began to glow. Leaning over the edge, Greta panicked as she felt herself drawn in. The water was freezing and sent a chill through her. Lights began to dance in front of her eyes as pain racked her skull. She gratefully slipped into unconsciousness.

When Greta awoke, she was in a dark forest surrounded by half dead trees. She feared she had arrived at the wrong spot, and hurriedly set off for the cottage at the base of the hill.

Shortly she came across the gnome Freida had mentioned in her tale. The little beast clung to her whining about how hungry he was. Greta gave it a shove and yelled at him, telling him to climb or look for food elsewhere as she was busy. The gnome cursed at her and ran away.

Further along, Greta could see the fields ahead as the night seemed to deepen. She thought these could not be the same fields Freida had spoken of, as the crop seemed to be rotting and sparse.

She came across the young girl, who again sat sobbing surrounded by baskets of wheat. She started to plead with Greta, who interrupted her to say she had no time. She needed to find the witch. She hurried away from the fields.

As full night fell, Greta found the cottage. The moon was high when the old woman appeared at the doorway. Greta thought she was the ugliest hag she had ever seen. However, she put forth her best manners, hoping to make her mother happy. She was also thinking of her own pillow of gold.

The old woman invited her in but set her to work straight away. Greta followed the old woman to the sleeping area. As before, the old woman instructed her to shake the blankets until feathers flew. She left Greta alone at her work, collecting her basket and heading outside.

Greta sighed and started flicking the blanket, but no feathers flew. She shook harder and harder but not one feather appeared. She grew frustrated and then had a cunning thought. Greta found a knife and tore a small hole in the corner of the blanket. This time when she shook, all the feathers flew out in a violent flurry. The wind that came forth howled and shook the cottage, swirling the feathers every which way until Greta could not see her own hand before her face.

All at once the feathers stopped and dropped to the ground and the wind ceased to groan. Lady Hollen stood there, furious. She hollered at the girl, screaming that she did not understand what magic she had unleashed. She swatted at Greta and pushed her from the cottage. 

Greta spun on her heel and stood face to face with the old woman. She demanded payment, claiming that she had done as was asked and so should receive some reward. Lady Hollen began to laugh. 

“Oh, you’ll get it. Head back to the well and find what is yours.” With that Lady Hollen went back into her cottage. Greta had been stubbornly defiant until she heard the old woman lock the door. The moon had set, and it was now full dark. Greta could barely see the way forward and walked cautiously in the far too quiet evening.

The wind rose, increasing her nervousness and small creatures skittered in front of her. As her fear grew she tried to walk faster. Greta began tripping over tree roots and stones. She began to cry just as she spotted a glow in the distance. 

Greta made her way hesitantly towards the glow and found herself in front of the well. It looked in even worse shape than normal, with spots of wood rot in the beams and a slime covering the top of the water. She did not want to go into it and tried to turn away.

Vines shot out of the water and wrapped around her wrists. The terrified girl was drawn into the well headfirst. She kicked and reached out her arms as best she could. More vines entangled her legs and then her torso. The water grew colder as she descended. A burning pressure started inside her as the water began to freeze her. Greta was chilled to her bones, and her limbs stiffened. She was wild with fright when the pressure of the deep water made her black out.

Back at home, Freida had fretted over Greta all evening. A violent blizzard had started shortly after she left, cutting Freida and her stepmother from the outside. Her stepmother teased her for her worry, and continuously commented what treasures Greta was sure to receive. The next day, after the blizzard had passed, Freida insisted on at least going to the well, which the stepmother reluctantly agreed to.

Upon reaching the well they found Greta, frozen solid and with bruises covering her body. The spindle they found was broken upon the ground. The stepmother was overcome with grief and cried over the body of her lifeless daughter. She found the spindle point and drove it deep into her chest, dying overtop of her daughter. 

Freida was left speechless. She covered them with stones and made her way home. She began to cry, and then realized she was now free of the repression and ill treatment. She smiled as she entered a house that was now her very own.

Posted in Fiction

Fiction: The Scarecrow

Posted on by C.M. Wellsmore

The scarecrow’s first memory was of opening his eyes to see the face of the man who had sung him to life. He was a very simple doll, being of simple build and features. He was dressed in old clothes and stuffed with the remainder of the last harvest. He was no ordinary doll though. A scarecrow’s very existence was tied to the wellbeing of the farm it looked after. The doll looked into the face of the man. It was a serious yet friendly face. 

A second face, that of a woman came into view. She had an equally serious expression and lifted him gently from the chair on which he was seated. Through his embroidered eyes he saw the man rise and move to the center of the room, standing with his arms outstretched. The little scarecrow could not understand the words that were said. Instead, he was filled with a knowing, that this man and woman had summoned him to guard them, and that he very much wanted to. For as long as he remained in the field, it would be safe from attack by forest folk who disliked the humans.

The woman placed him upon a shelf and spoke to him again. The words were a mystery, though he knew he could hear threats clearly, could see for miles in any weather, and most importantly, would be given the gift of walking at the spring full moon.

Over the next month, all the household touched and spoke to him. They used words like “loved”, “important”, “family” and the scarecrow was filled with a knowing of happiness. Each night, when the family ate, they would bring him a stein of the house ale. He felt the devotion and love in the act and grew a deep affection for the humans. He felt a special bond with the small girl, who would bring him her treats to share and spoke to him for hours.

The scarecrow could see the first field from his shelf, through a large sunny window. It seemed to stretch for miles, and he could not wait to be in it. He could see his elder, the scarecrow who currently guarded the fields, perched atop his high seat in the center of the scene. With a slumped back, and a mournful expression, the older guardian watched the workers and would warn them of any incoming dangers. At night he walked the fields, defending the hard work of the humans from the greed and mayhem of the forest folk.

The scarecrow did not understand the elder guardian’s somber mood. He was filled with a knowing that the humans were kind and loving of him as well. Did he not have the same feeling for the humans? The little doll supposed the elder may have more knowing, and he hoped never to know that mood himself.

When the harvest was finished, and the fields had given up what bounty it would for the year, the humans brought the elder one inside. He knew with the fields covered in snow; the humans did not need the guardian to stay outside. The scarecrow watched as the elder was seated at the table, a full meal such as the humans themselves ate placed before him. The expression on the elder’s face never lightened, the younger one noticed with confusion.

At length the humans gathered him up and began using words in what sounded like a tune to the little doll. He watched from his shelf as they placed him atop a large pile of wood. The scarecrow’s knowing of happiness was shattered as the humans set the wood alight. He watched with horror as the humans grew louder with their tune words, too loud for them to hear the screams as the elder scarecrow became dust.

The little doll took up the screaming when the elder’s had died off. He finally understood his mood and was filled with a knowing that he would die the same way. He watched as the humans each smeared the ashes of the dead scarecrow on themselves, before scooping the remaining ashes into a pail. The man and woman walked into the fields with the pail, the remainder of the humans returning to the house to finish feasting.

The cries of the scarecrow ceased as a large shadow filled the window. As it came closer, he saw the shape of a large dog come into view.

“Why do you cry little one? Your wail has moved me, and I would assist you if I could” despite the growl the voice sounded warm and friendly to the little doll.

The scarecrow explained what the humans did, and that he did not wish to die. The dog listened with sympathy to the poor doll’s tale. As his terror waned, he grew suspicious of the newcomer. He demanded to know who he was.

“I am known as a shadow wolf. I guard the edges of the fields. You might say we work together, you guarding the inside of the fields and I keeping the forest out. I have watched year after year as the ungrateful humans burn the ones who keep them safe. But I have a plan.”

The shadow wolf offered to distract the humans, long enough for the scarecrow to run away. The little doll was hesitant, knowing it was a rule of his being that he never left the land he was tied to. But these rules came from the ones who would burn him. The shadow wolf sensed his hesitation.

“They would not be completely defenseless. Remember I roam the edges of the field, and there are others of my kind who watch the humans. We will keep them safe as you seek your freedom.” The doll’s determination was set then. The shadow wolf agreed to return in the spring, when the humans would perform the spring full moon ceremonies and the scarecrow received the ability to walk.

The winter was a trial, and though the scarecrow was given the same love and adoration as before, his days were filled with a fear he would be harmed before the spring ritual, and his love of the humans was smeared with dread. Even the little girl, with her sweet face and happy tones could not soothe his spirit.

The spring full moon finally arrived. The man spoke to the scarecrow, his voice creating a surge of energy within the scarecrow. For the briefest of moments, the connection of love returned as the energy pooled in his legs and he stood for the first time. He looked at the man and woman with wonder, until he saw the cart through the door. He had half a mind to run, but by then the girl had taken hold of his hand. He knew he would not have gotten far at any rate, as he was still very shaky on his legs. The girl led him to the cart and sat with him as they drove to the edge of the field.

When the family arrived, the man lifted the scarecrow, and raising him in the air, began marching him around the fields he was to guard. The family used tones and words of praise and love, and the knowing of protectiveness began to infuse him. Had he not seen the ash on the cart, he might have dwelled in the feeling. But he was reminded of the elder’s fate. He knew one day the family would burn him too. He knew sadness, as he did not want to think of the family as his foe.

The shadow wolf watched from the field’s edge. The scarecrow saw him and was filled with hope again. He had a plan, though the longer the humans used their tune words the less he wanted to leave. He fought against the feeling of family that descended on him. Families do not burn one another. He struggled, telling himself over and over that he need only make it through the evening.

Upon returning home, the family placed him on a chair next to the door and retired for the evening. The shadow wolf appeared in the window and asked if the scarecrow still wanted to proceed with the plan. The little doll, with a heavy feeling, agreed. The shadow wolf advised the scarecrow to be off with the first light, stating he would take care of the rest.

The dawn rose, and the scarecrow along with it. As quietly as he could, he tiptoed to and out through the door. He was surprised not to hear any movements from the farm hands but took advantage of this luck. He ran as fast as his legs would go, fearing all the while the man or the woman would spot him. He only slowed when he realized he was beyond the edge of the field. 

Here he stopped, elated and confused. He had not considered what he would do now. His entire thought had been freedom, not what he would do with it once achieved. He was disoriented, as every fiber of his being wanted him to go back within the field he was tied to. He froze on the spot, and he warred with himself as the need to protect his field became overwhelming.

The wind shifted, bringing with it the smell of the little girl. The scarecrow felt a knowing of regret for her, as well as nervousness. She was too young to be in the fields alone, and he feared she may have come searching for him. Torn between the fear of being caught, and fear of her safety, he went back into the fields, his goal to send her home.

As he walked, the strength of her scent increased, along with another. He did not recognize the metallic tang to the air, but he knew he should have been spotted by a few humans by now, and his knowing of fear grew.

Upon reaching the home yard, the scent became overwhelming. The scarecrow grew frantic, tripping over a log he had not seen. When he looked down, he realized what he thought was a log was a foot. Wild with terror, he spun around, noticing for the first time the human limbs strewn around. He sped to the house.

The scarecrow entered and found a scattered assortment of bodies. He found the little girl’s bracelet. Had he been able to, he would have cried. His shock was still so great he could make no sound as he moved through the house. Stumbling through the carnage, he found the shadow wolf in the main room, still chewing on an arm as he entered. A small gasp escaped him then, and the wolf looked up. When he recognized the scarecrow it let out a low laugh.

“I am known as a shadow wolf. I haunt the edges of the fields. You might say I am your enemy, you guarding the fields to try and keep me out. I have watched year after year as the scarecrow kin keep the forest kind out, waiting for a chance to enter but never being able while the guardians were in the fields. I waited and waited for the right moment, when a new scarecrow would be made and the humans would be careless with timing. I knew if I could get to one before the creation rites were complete, I might persuade them to leave. I did not anticipate your willingness though.”

The scarecrow stood in despair as the shadow wolf picked up the arm in its mouth and left. He watched as the wolf strode out, chuckling to itself. He stood in the gore-soaked house for a long time, his mind racing on what he had done and what to do now. With a soul heavy with knowing he did not want, he took the girl’s bracelet and walked into the fields determined to let none of the forest kind ever enter again.

Posted in Fairy Tale

The Nachtkrapp

Posted on by C.M. Wellsmore

Artur walked home as briskly as he could. He was cold, far colder than he should have been for this time of year. It was only Autumn, still a way off from the first snow. Yet the breeze that engulfed him was chillier than normal. He thought longingly of the warm tavern ahead and put a bit more speed in his stride.


The forest had brought no comfort tonight. Where the moonlit trees usually filled him with a sense of peace, he found the woods dark and silent this evening. A flock of birds had flown overhead, just before this unnatural chill had descended. Artur would be glad to reach town, it seemed as though the path was longer than he remembered.


He had almost reached the end of the forest, when he noticed a dark shape in the tree ahead. His first impression was of a bird, though it was far larger than any of the birds he had seen in the area. He approached it slowly, wary but curious. As he drew near the branch the bird raised its head and he looked into holes where there should have been eyes.


Artur did not move or speak for a moment, he was held transfixed at the darkness in those sockets. He felt the bird saw him clearly despite his lack of eyes. The bird was almost his height up close, and as Artur gained the ability to pull away from that stare he saw the huge wings were dotted with rotted holes. It was then that the smell arrived.


Artur was attempting to master his reaction to the carrion fragrance and was shocked to find the bird addressing him directly.


“Well then! If it were not bad enough we’ve grown so few, the man – beasts have lost respect entirely! Do you not know who I am? Do you not see me for the power I am? Ignorance!”


Artur did not know what to make of this tirade, though he knew he had offended the creature in some way. He also knew this was no ordinary bird. “Who are you? How can you be talking?” he asked.


“Truly! Man – beasts think talking is special. Just because you speak does not mean you know anything! Man – beasts have forgotten much; their speech now is filled with nonsense. One time ago, man – beasts knew Nachtkrapp was lord of the woods. One time ago, man – beasts were fearful of the Nachtkrapp. And so they should be! When I fly, my wings spread disease across the land! I claim lives with every flight! And still no respect! Arrogant man – beast!”


Artur was just as confused as before, though now he was becoming offended. “Why would I respect a creature enamored with death? What do the humans gain from this? Is the respect mutual? I have never heard of a Nachtkrapp before this evening. Why would I blindly respect you?”


“Respect you will!” replied the Nachtkrapp, “Nachtkrapps are not enamored by death. We know it is unavoidable. We are creatures of death, we are made with it. We know its feel, its smell, its taste. I will not be spoken down to by a man – beast!
What did the ‘humans’ gain? We did not eat them! We once feasted on man – beasts, you were greater in number then too. We pulled their intestines out and ripped open torsos for the tender organs. But the best flavor in the world is the eyes! How I long for the taste! You showed respect in those days. But we agreed, no feasting on the man – beasts, so long as they sent us tribute every moon, and never looked up when they walked in the woods!


Then another time ago, the man – beasts stopped sending the tribute! The strongest of us went to the villages to investigate, and do you know what we found? The villagers made friends with other forest kind! They made allies of the woodland spirits behind our backs! They knew how to keep creatures like us out of the village! They wronged us and then they barricade us out! So be it! No man – beast may be left alive now, we are at war!”


Artur grew alarmed for a moment at the words of this giant bird. But then said “How is it no one knows about this? If you truly are at war, why am I only hearing of this now?”


“Ignorant man – beast! This war started before you were born! We were mighty then! Mighty in strength and mighty in number. We flew over towns, covering entire districts in plagues. We scoured villages and hamlets, leaving rotted feathers behind to infect the livestock of the man – beasts. Our glories were many!”


The Nachtkrapp seemed almost to sigh then, “It was then that the man – beasts discovered the traps. We know not which forest folk taught the magic to them, we have many enemies. But they made traps large enough and quick enough to catch us. These traps were the capture and death of us one by one. Our numbers are small enough we stay to the forest now. The man – beasts may no longer give tribute, but they also no longer remember why they must stay out of our woods. Follow!” the Nachtkrapp screamed the last word, and began to fly down the path in the direction Artur had just come from.


Artur, with a growing wariness, followed the Nachtkrapp back into the woods. As they arrived at a glade, he saw a figure lying on the ground. His step slowed as they approached it. The Nachtkrapp noticed and settling on a nearby branch turned to speak.


“The man – beasts once knew many things, far more than the ignorant ones today! They knew the Nachtkrapp was lord of the woods! They knew to look the eyes of the Nachtkrapp was death! We are harvesters of souls! Gazing into our eyes is all the tribute we need!”


Artur approached the body, though he had a suspicion of what he would find. He looked down onto the slumped figure that was him. “I saw you earlier this evening,” he said, “I thought you a group of birds from your size. And I thought you had the darkest eyes I had ever seen.” Artur bent down to close his body’s eyes. By the time he’d stood up, the Nachtkrapp had left.


Artur wandered, not knowing what would happen, or should happen now that he knew he was dead. He walked into the forest with the half-formed idea of finding the forest folk the giant raven had spoken of. Perhaps they would know what happens to souls harvested by the Nachtkrapp.

Posted in Fairy Tale, Fiction

The Buschgroßmutter

Posted on by C.M. Wellsmore

There are certain nights on which travel through the countryside is absolutely beautiful. The moon is radiant in its majesty, the hum of the nocturnal environment suggests hidden secrets and the cool breeze bring sweet scents and memories. This was not one of those evenings for Jacob. 

Jacob was still sitting pondering how he arrived in this situation when full night fell. He gazed at the glow of the moon on the trees around him, cursed at the unending drone of the animals and insects, and shuddered when the wind rose.

Sitting across the fire from him was Luca. When Jacob looked at Luca, he felt a bitterness he was not accustomed to feeling. Luca had been evicted from the last town they wandered through and had provided no explanation as to why. While Jacob had been looking forward to comfort and rest, he was too loyal to let Luca leave alone. Unwelcome in the closest village, penniless and hungry, the two men had taken shelter in a dense copse, hoping to be shielded from the worst of the wind. 

Luca had at first been apologetic for having the pair removed from a hot meal and warm bed, and Jacob had felt pity for him. While Jacob was generally liked wherever he went, Luca’s personage itself made people uneasy. He had done a number of questionable things in these past years. Most folk are willing to look past questionable characteristics in exchange for information or gain. It was said that some of Luca’s past activities were of a sort that even the more liberal among us are unwilling to look past. Luca had never shared the stories of his past activities with Jacob. As accepting as Jacob was, he might not have felt as much pity or loyalty towards his companion were he to learn these details. Jacob did know that Luca’s arrogance and disregard for the lives of most made him difficult to have affection for. As night wore on, his irregular muttering and constant complaints made him difficult to be around at all. 

Jacob’s patience with Luca ran out just after the moon retired for the night. Jacob had been sleeping and awoke to find the fire had gone out while Luca rested instead of sitting the watch as was his turn. He sat for some time, gazing at the sleeping man beside him, and decided to take a short walk. He reasoned if no idea presented itself to him, at the very least he may yet relax enough to sleep.

The glowing trees swayed gently, gentler than they should have for the level of wind that was now howling through the forest. Jacob felt slightly unnerved. Evenings like this reminded him of the tales his oma would tell in the evenings before bed, or when wandering forest paths. Jacob himself was not a superstitious man, but through his now long dead oma he knew of some things that roam the woods by day, and more that roam the woods by night. He knew when he saw a mark on a stump that it served as a hideout for the moss maidens. He knew that nixies frequented the small rivers and ponds that dotted the forest. And he knew that the woman standing in front of him now was the Buschgroßmutter.

Where she had come from Jacob was not sure. There was no doubt however, that the forest crone was now looking directly at him, and Jacob became transfixed by her gaze.

The Buschgroßmutter was a figure that inspired fear and joy in equal measures, though Jacob had not thought of her tales for many years. He recalled his oma telling of a forest spirit, stronger than most, and far more ambivalent. Most forest creatures were either kind and generous, or malicious. 

The Buschgroßmutter was both. She was known to reward those who helped her, though the lore was vague as to what the reward might be. His oma would not answer him when Jacob asked what happened if the human said no, simply stating that it is only fools and those finished with life that would refuse the Buschgroßmutter.

Walking towards him, leaning heavily on her large and ornate staff, the Buschgroßmutter pointed to a nearby log, and beckoned Jacob sit with her. Jacob hesitated, as her initial appearance did not inspire closeness. The Buschgroßmutter’s figure was stooped and crooked, and moss seemed to grow from her skin in certain places, particularly over her feet. Her dress and apron were dirty, and the basket she wore on her back wafted a scent Jacob did not care to identify. He remembered his oma’s words regarding respect for the forest folk, however, and sat down where she had pointed.

Her hair was the colour of new fallen snow and seemed to have no end. Her hair fell in every direction, and near the scalp of her head the tangled snarl of her mane became a matted crown.

Jacob watched as she removed a comb from her apron pocket and drop it in his lap. He picked it up, noting the pure white comb was made from bone, with markings he could not identify save one small mark towards the middle of the comb in the shape of a leaf.

The Buschgroßmutter startled Jacob then by speaking in a voice that did not appear to match her age,

“I am old, and I am weary. I travel these woods day and night, hoping to meet someone who will help me. My head is in agony, and I am too frail to comb out the knots that have taken over. If you would be so kind as to assist me by combing my hair, I will give you a bag containing leaves of a tree that grows in no woods known to men.”

 Jacob did not believe for a moment this seemingly harmless old lady truly frail. He had no doubt if it was her intention, she could claim him for the forest forever. But he remembered his oma’s words, and in respect for the forest, he agreed. 

When he was closer to the nest of hair, he realized the task was larger than he realized. What he had taken for mere knots were pads where the hair had felted together, and what he assumed was the wind moving strands of the cloud like coif turned out to be masses of roving lice. The unidentified smell coming from her basket was horrendous, and had Jacob not been the solid kind his stomach would have been on the ground.

Jacob was, however, a solid man, and even if his stomach was shaky, his word was stone. He had given his agreement, and he would keep it, though as he combed through the mats and watched the lice falling onto the ground and up his sleeve, he silently wished he had not seen her at all.

It took many hours, and during that time Jacob’s thoughts drifted to what Luca might think if he awoke to an empty camp. He dare not stop his labors though, he was not sure how easily the Buschgroßmutter was offended, or what punishments waited for the offender.

He picked large seasoned lice from the crown of her head, removed twigs from the center of knots and combed and combed until the milky white locks shone in the light of the approaching sunrise. By that time the icy cold chill of her skin had frozen his fingers to the bone.

The Buschgroßmutter had not said a word the entire duration of the combing, nor did she have much to say now. Being a man of few words himself, Jacob did not expect praise, or even thanks, and contented himself with the knowledge that he had experienced and survived an encounter with the forest folk.

As the Buschgroßmutter prepared to leave, she withdrew a small yellow sack from her basket and threw it on the ground in front of Jacob. Walking into the distance, the Buschgroßmutter turned to look back at Jacob once, and in that moment, she did not appear the nerve-racking crone she had prior. Jacob looked in awe upon the face of the Buschgroßmutter as she is to those of her kind. He saw the moss on her feet grow vibrant, the wrinkles of her face soften into laugh lines and he saw her eyes take on a green which reminded him of the lush hills surrounding his boyhood home.

Jacob picked up the bag and hurried back to the campsite, to find Luca in an irritated mood. Despite falling asleep on his watch, he was annoyed Jacob had not been there when he awoke, and his mood was all the fouler from lack of food, this of which Jacob could at least sympathize with.

As Luca paced the campsite, loudly voicing his many displeasures, Jacob opened the bag. He had no idea what to expect of leaves from trees unknown to men, but he was awestruck to find leaves made from gold in the bag. There was more gold in that bag than Jacob had seen in almost a year.

His awe gave way to a small yelp of excitement, drawing the attention of his companion.

While Jacob did not currently look on Luca with favor, he none the less shared his leaf treasures readily. Luca joined Jacob in happy disbelief for many moments. The contents of the bag could feed and house the two men all winter. In laughter and bewilderment, the ill feelings of the previous night were forgotten, and the incredible tale of how Jacob came to possess the bag was told.

Jacob sat in silent contentment after he had finished his story. He was thinking of the opportunities in town the gold would provide. A good sturdy house, a stocked larder and the promise of income made him think his trouble had finally gone.

Luca listened to Jacob’s retelling eagerly. As is custom for those who believe themselves truly clever, he paid no mind to the warnings and courtesies Jacob related. His mind was fixed upon gold, and he determined to have his own. He did not share these thoughts with Jacob, but instead began forming an idea of what that gold could provide for one man travelling alone.

While Jacob now possessed riches beyond his dreams, it was not likely to provide food at that moment in time. The two men scoured the woods, and shared a pitiful meal of roots and mushrooms, with Luca boasting of how much he would eat once they arrived in town. In high spirits the two set out.in the direction of a village Luca was not yet barred from. As the two men walked in the warm and increasing daylight, Luca took in his surroundings and noticed when they entered the part of the forest Jacob had said he found the Buschgroßmutter.

Jacob had lost himself in thought. He had always prided himself on his lack of superstition. His oma’s stories had amused him, and for her benefit he had always observed the law of the forest. After her passing he had continued to follow that law, out of habit and out of respect for the woman who raised him. He had not truly believed in spirits and was now contemplating how many more of his oma’s tales might prove true, when he felt a sharp thud to the back of his head, followed by blackness.

This was not the first time Luca had incapacitated a companion. One strike with a rock was enough to render the figure of Jacob unconscious. He too did not truly believe in the law of the forest, and while he had listened to Jacob’s tale with excitement concealing his sneer, he believed completely in the gold in Jacob’s pack. He did not care if it came from some harlot lost in the woods, or whether Jacob had come across the bag by chance and invented the tale from his fancy. Luca fished the golden leaves out of Jacob’s pack and carried on.

Another couple of hours traveling saw Luca halting abruptly when a woman who was not there the moment before appeared. She stood just shorter than Luca, and the chill stare in her eyes made him shudder. The moss on her feet was moldy, and the matted knots in her hair had returned.  His suspicion that this was the woman Jacob had encountered grew with each step she took, each time she moved her staff rotted with age and neglect and each passing whiff of her basket the breeze brought. Luca could not place the smell, though it was familiar to him. It reminded him of some of the less than wholesome undertakings of his past, and he silently determined that whatever she had in there, he did not need to relieve her of.

When she moved to sit on a nearby rock, pulling a bone comb from her pack, Luca was convinced she was the Buschgroßmutter of Jacob’s story.

“I am old, and I am weary. I travel these woods…”

As the Buschgroßmutter began to speak, Luca snatched the comb from the crone, and begun carelessly pulling through the knots. The Buschgroßmutter growled at the rough treatment, but Luca pressed on, now fixated on two bags of gold. 

It did not take long before Luca decided this task was impossible. The hair resisted combing, and though greasy it was hopelessly matted in many spots near her scalp. He could not find the ends of the hair to start from. Standing over her basket, the odor assaulted his senses. No longer conjuring memories, the pungent fragrance made him feel faint. Luca’s determination began to give way when he combed through the shell of a long dead beetle, releasing its odor of decay. His hands were covered in the icy mud and body oils he had combed from her hair, and his mind reeled as lice the size of maggots scurried in and around the knots. He was unlucky enough to brush his fingers against their smooth slimy bodies more than once and summoned all of his will not to vomit. He was almost grateful for the cold oily mud on his hands. He did not think he could control himself if the lice touched his bare skin.

When Luca saw a louse the size of his little finger crawl out of a knot he had had no luck in untangling, he could take no more.

He flung the comb into the crone’s lap. He did not need her bag of leaves, not with Jacob’s bag snugly in his pocket and so refused to continue combing. He would not, he said, be made to handle such filth. When she opened her mouth to protest, Luca began shouting. 

“I will not play servant to you! “he cried, “My companion may be willing to grovel to forest urchins, but I will not touch that disgusting head of hair again.”

Towards the end of his rant his speech became halting and eventually gave way altogether. As he spoke, it seemed the Buschgroßmutter grew younger. Her hair retained its snow-white coloring but softened and became a cascade of locks around her shoulders, reaching down to her knees. She took on a glow as the age and wrinkles disappeared from her skin, leaving a pale, almost grey skinned maiden shining and glorious standing before him.

Luca’s breath caught in his throat. He had never witnessed such beauty before. He began to walk towards the Buschgroßmutter, as she slowly moved closer to him. When the Buschgroßmutter was no more than a foot from his face Luca looked into her eyes. The soft green hue of new plant grown looked back at him, and in those eyes he saw the start of all that is new and beginning. As he stared her eyes changed to the vivid green of the leaves of the trees in his childhood orchard, flush with life. Goosebumps arose on his skin as her eyes changed to the dark colour of evergreen, reminding him of yuletide, and the annual procession of the Krampus.

As he stood awestruck, the Buschgroßmutter threw something onto the path behind him, and faded from sight. It took Luca some time before he was able to move, then at once he ran to find the item the Buschgroßmutter had thrown.

He found a black bag in the middle of the path. He picked it up with a small jump for joy and tipped the contents of the bag into his hand, a singular gold coin with a greenish tinge to it.

Luca’s disappointment was palpable. He had not gained the riches that Jacob had, but he reasoned it might have been partial payment for the partial combing. He examined the coin closely, checking the markings for something he could identify. The coin was old, and most of the markings had faded long ago. The only marks he could be sure of was what looked like a faded but large branched tree.

He was so intent on the symbols that he did not immediately notice the green coloring of the coin beginning to transfer to his skin. Not until two fingers on one had, 3 on the other and a portion of one palm were covered in this green hue did Luca notice.

Panic set in. Luca was certain now that the old witch had cursed him. Unsure how to break such a curse, Luca resolved to find Jacob, reasoning he could make up a convincing story regarding Jacob’s lapse of consciousness.

As the green tinge continued to spread up his hands, then arms, then chest, his search for Jacob grew frantic. He was sure he had passed the place he left his companion multiple times, but Jacob was not to be found.

Luca grew wild with fear. As he searched, he noticed with horror that the hair on his arm had taken on a moss like consistency and was thickening. He could feel a pulse inside himself, offbeat to his racing heart. 

Luca had no idea how long he had wandered for when the green spread to his lungs. Despite the changes, he had not until that point truly believed the curse was fatal. Luca stopped walking as the roots growing in his feet grew straight through the bones, pinning him in place. Dew welled in his lungs, making his breathing difficult. His heartbeat slowed as the pulse inside of him increased, and a ripping pain up both sides of his body from toes to crown made him cry out in agony.

As the vines wrapped around his ribs and leaves sprouted from his eyes, he saw the Buschgroßmutter for the last time, now in her full power as the forest witch, the heart of the woods, the mother of the moss maidens, His last vision was of the true glory that is the Crone. Luca was no more.

Jacob had come around a few hours after suffering the attack. Bereft of his gold and companion, he had started towards the village with a light pack, moderate headache and heavy heart.

Just before reaching the edge of the forest, Jacob came across the almost consumed body of Luca. He recognized the man’s coat. The face was beyond recognition. Vines and branches grew from his eyes, mouth and navel. Moss covered most of his skin. 

Jacob made the sign of rest as his oma had taught him over the body. Despite his feelings towards Luca, he simply wouldn’t leave his companion to wander as a restless soul.

A short distance away a small yellow bag could be seen. Upon opening it Jacob found it to be his gift from the Buschgroßmutter. The discovery brought him a bitter happiness, and after a moment standing before the new moss-covered tree that once wore Luca’s face, he left the forest.

Jacob spent the winter in the nearby village. The gold would have sufficed for two, and for Jacob alone it provided a modest home, with a smithy attached, allowing him to practice his trade and live in comfort. All throughout the year he would tell the tale of the Buschgroßmutter, and how the quickest way to her wrath was pride.