“We must part for a time,” the man said. “Your brother does not like our engagement, and he plans to send me far away on business.”
“It breaks my heart to think of you gone for so long,” said the young woman.
“Don’t be sad,” her lover said. “This adventure promises rich rewards. When I return, I will bring enough for us to marry, whether your brother gives his blessing or not.”
They kissed, and the girl wept. Then she picked the very rose that held the elf, kissed it, and pinned it to her lover’s breast. She left then, whispering, “Farewell, Anthony, my love!”
In the rose, the tiny elf could hear Anthony’s heart beating as the man walked through a grove of trees.
But suddenly another man blocked the path; the stranger’s look was dark and threatening. The elf at once guessed this was the brother of the beautiful woman. Without warning, the newcomer drew out a dagger and stabbed Anthony. The murderer then cut off his victim’s head and buried it beside the body in the soft earth under a linden tree. There he also hid the fatal dagger.
“You are gone and will soon be forgotten,” said the evildoer. “And when my sister asks why you fail to return, I will tell her that young men are fickle and not to be trusted.”
He scattered dry leaves over the disturbed earth with his foot, then left. But he was not alone: The little elf accompanied him, sitting in a dry, rolled-up linden leaf, which had fallen onto the man’s hat as he dug the grave. The little elf shuddered with grief and anger at what he had seen.
When the evil man reached home, he took off his hat and went to see his sister, but found her asleep in her room. She stirred without waking and murmured, “Sweet Anthony.” At this, her brother shook his hat at her sleeping form, as though to drive away her happy dreams. He did not notice the dry leaf falling from his hat onto the counterpane.
When he had gone, the elf slipped out of the leaf, placed himself at the sleeping woman’s ear, and told her of the horrid murder. He described how her brother had buried Anthony beneath the linden tree.
“So that you will not think this is merely a dream,” he said, “when you awake you will find on your bed a withered leaf.”
Soon she stirred, and found the leaf. Fearful, but determined to know the truth of her dream, she went to the linden tree. Brushing away the leaves and loose earth beneath the tree, she found her lover, and cried terribly. The elf was a witness to her grief, for he had ridden on a curl of her hair.
After weeping a long time, she took up Anthony’s head, kissed his cold lips, and shook the earth from his hair.
“I will keep you near me,” she said. She covered the body again with the earth and leaves; but she took the head, the rose she had pinned to her lover’s coat, and the dagger.
In her room, she took a large flowerpot and placed in it the head and the dagger. She covered these with earth, and planted the rose in it. This was all she could do, for she could not bring herself to hand her brother over to the hangman.
The elf settled himself in the rose; and using his magic, he made the rose grow into a bush of blood-red blossoms. This gave some comfort to the young woman, who every day watered the wonderful plant with her tears. At first, her brother could not imagine why she wept over the flowerpot. When he came to understand that she was grieving for Anthony, he grew angry and cold. And when he realized that she had nothing but loathing for him, he went out of his way to avoid her.
Day after day, the girl would lean her head against the flowerpot, imagining she heard Anthony’s gentle voice whispering to her. Sometimes she dozed, and the rose elf, at her ear, talked of sweet things and gave her restful dreams.
As she lived more in dreams and memories, her life faded. One day, her spirit joined her lover’s in heaven.
When her brother discovered her lifeless body beside the flowerpot, he ordered his servants to arrange for her funeral—he would have no part in it. Then, because he fancied the splendid rosebush for himself, he lifted it to take it to his room. But the rose elf took a tiny, sharp thorn and stung the man in the hand, so that he dropped the flowerpot. It shattered, and those who had come to prepare the dead girl for burial saw the whitened skull. Then they realized that the brother was a murderer: His own dagger lay beside it.
The evildoer was sentenced to hang. And no one suspected that within the heart of the rosebush, which they planted on the young lovers’ graves, there dwelled one who had punished a terrible crime.
The Wind Rider
(Poland)
In a small village in Poland long ago, a magician grew jealous of a young farmer named Andrusz. Both were in love with the same village maiden, Krystyna; but she was happily betrothed to the farmer. None of the magician’s promises of wealth or power would turn her head.
So the older man went to Andrusz and offered him gold if he would give up Krystyna. But the farmer was greatly offended, and insulted the magician, and ordered him off his land.
The magician returned home in a rage. From that time on, he thought of nothing but revenging himself on Andrusz. One day, when the young peasant went into the meadow to rake hay, the evil magician went to the farmer’s hut and stuck a new, sharp knife under the doorstop, saying, “I cut this fellow’s bond with the earth and curse him to ride the storm wind forever.”
At that moment a whirlwind arose in the field. It scattered the hay, then wrapped itself around the unfortunate Andrusz. The farmer tried in vain to resist the wind’s pull. He struggled to cling to the hedges and trees with his hands. But in spite of his efforts, the storm wind pulled him up into the sky.
He spun around and around at the mercy of the winds of the upper air—helpless as a wisp of hay or cloud. He shouted himself hoarse, but no one saw him so high up. As the sun began to set, pangs of hunger set in, and cold chilled him to the bone. He looked with longing eyes at the smoke that curled from the chimneys of his village and carried the hint of warmth and supper cooking. He called even more loudly, and wept with frustration; but no one heard his cries or saw his tears.
Day after day he floated, like a hawk riding the winds, tormented by hunger and thirst. The breezes sometimes carried him north or south, east or west, but always returned him to the heights above his native village.
Every evening, the magician would come to the door of his hut and call up in a voice that only Andrusz could hear above the howling wind, “You will fly over this village forever. You will go on suffering, but never die. Such is my wrath.”
Sometimes, at morning or noon, Andrusz would be whirled above the cottage in which his sweetheart dwelt. He would see her come out to hang the laundry or gather eggs from the henhouse, only to end up sitting on a bench, weeping into her apron. And sometimes he would see the magician, like a crow in his black robe, come to call and pat her shoulder and whisper in her ear. But always, fair Krystyna fled from him, back into the house.
Wretched Andrusz felt his lips grow hard; his face and hands became tough as leather; still he lived on, the plaything of the wind. Nor could he sleep, for the breezes chilled him and tumbled him about constantly.
Then one morning, when he felt like little more than a dried leaf, Andrusz again found himself above his sweetheart’s cottage. Krystyna knelt in her garden, gathering cabbages.
He reached into his pocket and found the silver coin with which he had planned to buy a gift for Krystyna before the storm wind had gathered him up. He pressed it to his dry lips, and sent it spinning down. The sun glinted and gleamed off the coin as it turned end over end, falling to earth.
The coin landed in front of Krystyna. From above, Andrusz saw her pick it up in wonderment, then turn her eyes upward. Her hand shading her face, she scanned the sky. With the last of his strength, Andrusz waved his arms and kicked his legs.
For a despairing moment he thought she did not see him. Suddenly she stood up, spilling the cabbages in her apron, and waved back. Then she went running down the road.
Twisting like an acrobat, Andrusz was able to
change position enough to see what she was about. Krystyna went right to the hut of the witch Zofia. Hope leapt in him: Andrusz knew there was no love lost between the witch and the magician who had sentenced him to living death. Perhaps Zofia would be willing to help him.
After a moment, Krystyna and Zofia came out from the hut. The hag looked up as the young woman pointed. Again, Andrusz waved, though he was so weary the effort nearly killed him.
The old woman began to weave a spell with her hands. Even from far above, the young man could see that her lips were moving, though no sound reached him.
Next the old woman began stretching out her left arm, then pulling it back, stretching out her right, pulling it back, then repeating these actions. She looked like a fisherman hauling in nets, or a child reeling in a kite. To his delight, Andrusz felt an invisible cord wrap itself around him. Slowly the old woman pulled him earthward.
When he finally came to earth, how eagerly the two lovers embraced—though Krystyna wept anew to see how badly off Andrusz was. She clasped his skinny hands to her lips and wet them with her kisses and her tears.
But Zofia came between them. “My power over the wind is strong,” she told Andrusz, “but your enemy has the power of the blade. I can undo his spell, but it will take time. The moment he sees that you no longer ride the winds, he will recut the bonds that hold you to the earth.”
First the witch took them into her hut. There she prepared a potion that restored the young man’s strength. Then she told Krystyna, “Go and tell the magician that you have changed your mind. Buy us time to find the blade that is at the heart of this spell.”
Eager to help her lover, Krystyna hurried to the magician’s hut. Andrusz and Zofia headed for the farmer’s cottage, which had stood empty all this time. After a long search, they found the knife under Andrusz’s doorstep. “When this is placed under the wizard’s own stoop,” Zofia said, “the spell will turn back on him.”
Andrusz went to the magician’s hut; inside, he heard the voices of Krystyna and his enemy. When he had slipped the knife under the stoop, he boldly rapped on the door while Zofia stood nearby.
When the man answered, he was astonished to find Andrusz. In a moment Andrusz had knocked him to the ground. Then he called Krystyna to his side. Furious, the magician scrambled to his feet, muttering a spell. Krystyna clung to Andrusz, fearful of losing him a second time.
But Zofia suddenly undid her scarf and began to stroke her thick, dark hair. She chanted something the others could not hear. Although it was a calm day, such a storm of wind arose that the magician’s hut shivered. As Zofia stroked her hair faster and faster, the magician found himself whirling around and carried high into the air.
“Your enemy will trouble you no more,” said the old woman as she retied her scarf. “He must suffer the torments that he meant for you.”
So it was that Andrusz and Krystyna were married. And during the dancing and merriment that followed, one of the guests reported that he had seen the magician sailing through the air, over a lake far to the east. Before him and behind him flew ravens and crows, whose hoarse cries heralded the wicked magician’s endless ride on the wind.
The Skull That Spoke
(Nigeria)
There was a clever young man, Kigbo, who was also lazy. He did not want to fish or hunt or grow yams. His words were honey-sweet, so he was always able to charm some food from his neighbors. But, though he was unwilling to work, he was greedy. He dreamed of becoming a rich man so that he could purchase cattle and wives, spend his days growing fat and contented, and always be respected by his tribe.
One day as Kigbo walked along a forest path, lost in dreams of gaining effortless wealth, he stumbled over a skull half buried in the soft earth. Annoyed, he struck at the skull with his staff, saying, “You foolish thing! Get out of my way!”
A second blow of his staff sent the skull rolling across the clearing.
To his amazement Kigbo heard the skull say, “Why do you treat me so? Why do you call me foolish?”
Though he was very much afraid, the young man said boldly, “You lie here forgotten, not buried by family or friends. Therefore, you must have been a person of no importance. And to have died poor, without wives and friends to bury your bones, means you were foolish, also.”
“And you? Have you so many wives? Have you so much importance in your village?” asked the skull. And it seemed to Kigbo that the fleshless thing was mocking him.
“I am clever,” the young man boasted. “I will soon get for myself all the things I do not yet have. I will not die of foolishness, like you!”
“If I died of foolishness,” replied the skull, “then you will soon die of your cleverness.”
“Enough!” cried Kigbo. And he walked away. But as he walked, the young man began to get an idea of how to turn his chance meeting with the skull to his advantage.
Upon reaching his village, he went to the royal house and prostrated himself before the king.
The king demanded, “Why have you come before me?”
Kigbo answered, “I have found a skull that spoke to me. Surely such a wonder is a gift from the gods—a marvel worthy of a king.”
At first, the king’s wives and his counselors and his bodyguards laughed at Kigbo. But the king looked at the young man darkly and said, “Have you told this story in the hope that I would believe it, and therefore seem foolish in your eyes?” For the king was very much concerned with his own importance; to mock him was treason of the worst sort, and punishable by death.
But Kigbo said, “Upon my life, I promise you that I am speaking the truth.”
“Then bring this skull, this gift of the gods, and set it before me,” said the king. “If it says but one word, I will give you cowries enough to buy cattle and wives and heaps of yams. But if it fails to speak, I will have your head.”
Filled with thoughts of all the riches that would soon be his, Kigbo retraced his steps into the forest. Soon he found the skull, and picked it up.
“Have a care, Kigbo!” the skull said. “If I died of my foolishness, then you will soon die of your cleverness.”
Ignoring this warning, the young man hurried back to the royal house. There he prostrated himself, and set the skull at the king’s feet. “Speak!” Kigbo commanded.
The skull spoke not a word.
“Speak, you foolish thing!” cried Kigbo.
Not a word came from the fleshless jaws.
Then Kigbo beat the skull with the end of his staff, but this had no better effect than his words.
The king, angry that Kigbo was playing a trick on him, made a sign to one of his bodyguards. Unmindful of this, Kigbo had picked up the skull and was shaking it.
The bodyguard’s ax sliced through the air. Kigbo’s head toppled from his now lifeless body. With another movement of his hand, the king signed to his servants to throw the young man’s body and head, as well as the skull, into the jungle.
Head and skull rolled to a stop, facing each other in the forest shade.
“You foolish thing!” Kigbo yelled at the skull. “Look what you have done to me!”
But the skull only grinned and said, “It was your own cleverness that brought you here: for being too clever can be as fatal as being too foolish.”
The Monster of Baylock
(British Isles—Ireland)
There is a curious legend that Ireland will never face the fire and brimstone of the Last Day; rather, the story goes, on the day before all other nations are delivered over to the destroying flame, Ireland will be devoured by a giant born of her own people.
The legend goes on to say that the devouring giant has already been born and is in hiding, waiting and longing for the day before the Last Day, when he can gulp and swallow the whole country that has been hiding him, alive, since ancient times.
This is the story of how that monster came to be.…
In times past, most people dwelt in Ireland’s valleys and plains. Only a few lived in the mountai
ns, where they had to fight for their living against wild beasts and against the ferns and bushes that were forever invading and choking their fields.
Now, it happened that a man and his wife lived in a little rough-and-tumble hut high up on the side of the Knockmealdowns. For years they longed for a child, but none was given them. So they went on working by themselves in that lonely place, where they only saw the occasional hunter or wood gatherer.
At last the woman had a son, and husband and wife rejoiced mightily on the day he was born.
A few days later, the woman left the baby snug in his cradle while she went out to milk the cow. Her husband had gone to gather wood for the fire. But when she returned with a jug of milk, the woman thought that the baby looked different. Leaning closer, she saw that he was growing. In a short time, he was too big to stay in the cradle, so he climbed out onto the floor. Then he took an oatcake, which was lying on the hearth, and swallowed it in one gulp, never minding that it was nearly as hot as a coal.
Not a sound did he make, but only looked around the place for more to eat. The woman had never heard the story of the giant who would devour the land before the Last Day, but she could see that something was greatly amiss.
Growing again, the child snatched up the jug of milk and downed it as though it were a thimbleful. After this, he caught hold of everything within reach that he could eat. All the while, he was growing bigger and bigger. Soon the crown of his head touched the roof of the cottage.
He grew again, and the rafters creaked. Quick as a wink, the monster child grabbed the cat hiding in the corner and swallowed it down. When he looked hungrily at the woman, she fled from the house with a shriek.
At most times there would have been no one to witness her distress. But this day, it happened that an old man was passing by. He was a wizard, and it was rumored that he could look into the future as well as cast powerful spells.
Even More Short & Shivery Page 5
