Tatterhood

by Margrete Lamond

  ‘Out you go, girl,’ said the woman to her eldest, ‘and find that fowl of ours. Have it back we must, if it means plucking it out of the very hillside.’

  Well, the daughter took her turn and went out to look. She went hither and yon, clucking and calling, but the hen was nowhere to be found. Then, as she was looking, she heard a voice – ‘The hen went into the mountain! The hen went into the mountain!’ it said, and it seemed to come out of the very hillside itself.

  The girl straggled over to see what she would see, but when she stepped forward, she trod on thin air and fell – deep, deep down into a vault beneath the earth – and found herself in a fine domed hall. When she crept through a door, there was another even finer. And so, with her heart like a potato in her throat, she made her way through hall after hall, cavern after cave, each one grander and more splendid than the last. Just as she thought they could get no grander, a hill-troll suddenly appeared beside her.

  ‘Be my sweetheart, will you?’ he said.

  ‘Certainly not!’ she replied. ‘I’ve got to look for my ma’s missing hen.’

  It was a feeble excuse, and if the girl had known the hill-troll’s temper she might not have made it. But, as it was, the troll grabbed her in a rage, reefed off her head and tossed her into the cellar – body, head and all.

  Up home, the widder-woman sat and waited, and waited some more – but no firstborn girl appeared. She waited a good bit longer, but when neither hide nor hair was forthcoming she said to her middle daughter, ‘Out you go, girl, and find that sister of yours. And keep an eye out for the hen while you’re at it.’

  The middle sister went out and clucked and called, until she too heard the voice from the hillside.

  ‘The hen went into the mountain! The hen went into the mountain!’

  Without a thought for troll-craft, the girl went closer to have a look – and she too trod on thin air and fell; down, down, deep into the earth. There she crept through the halls, each one finer than the last, until she too came to the finest of all and met the troll.

  ‘Be my sweetheart, will you?’ the hill-troll said.

  ‘Certainly not!’ the sister replied. ‘I’m too busy finding my mother’s missing hen.’

  Again the troll was offended. He grabbed her and wrenched off her head and threw the whole lot down into the cellar.

  When the widder-woman had sat and waited – and then waited some more – and no second daughter was to be heard or seen, she said to the youngest, ‘It’s only right that you go out and find your sisters; and the hen, of course, you can always keep an eye out for the hen while you’re at it.’

  Yes, the youngest went out. She went here and there, thither and yon, looking and clucking and calling. But there wasn’t a hen, and there weren’t any sisters either. At long last she too came searching near the rock-face and heard the voice calling, ‘The hen went into the mountain! The hen went into the mountain!’

  The girl thought this was odd and, going closer, she trod on thin air and fell – like her sisters – down, deep, down into the earth. There she was, in the same grand cave, with its vaults and domes, arches and pillars, and off she went, scouting from one fine hall to the next. But this girl took her time.

  She peeked and touched, snooped and pried, until there wasn’t a knobble of rock she hadn’t inspected, nor a chink of space she hadn’t peered through. In time, of course, she found the cellar. She opened the door, looked down into it, and saw her sisters’ heads and bodies sprawling there.

  Putting two and two together, the girl shut the door again – and just in time, too, because the hill-troll wasn’t far behind.

  ‘Be my sweetheart, will you?’ he asked.

  She didn’t bother thinking twice.

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, quick as a flash.

  The hill-troll was so pleased to have a sweetheart at last that he lavished on her the finest of everything – gowns and blouses; braid, embroidery and buttons, buckles on her shoes, and brooches so heavy with disks that she tinkled every time she moved.

  But for all his gifts the troll couldn’t give her peace of mind – not with her sisters’ heads apart from their bodies and them lying in the dark while she sat about in fine clothes.

  No, she couldn’t feel entirely grateful.

  There came a day, after she had been there for a while, when she was more moping and thoughtful than usual.

  ‘What’s fretting you?’ said the troll, who was more than anxious to keep her sweet.

  ‘Aw,’ said the girl, foxy and sly, ‘it’s because I can’t get home to my ma. She’s all alone, and hungry and thirsty, too, with no one to know if she starves or not.’

  ‘Well, going home is out of the question,’ said the hill-troll, ‘but if you put some food in a sack, I’ll carry it along to her, no trouble at all.’

  ‘You’re a good troll, underneath,’ she said, but she didn’t mean a word because she filled the sack near to the brim with silver and gold, with only a skimming of food across the top. Then she gave it to the troll to carry.

  ‘But don’t go snooping inside, mind,’ she told him. ‘I’ll know the moment you do.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise I won’t,’ said the troll.

  But the girl climbed up the inside of a vault to watch him through a chink in the mountain wall as he lumbered off through the night with his load.

  And – as the girl had guessed – it wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of the troll.

  ‘It’s devilish heavy,’ he said to himself. ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing what’s inside,’ and setting the sack down, he loosened it to peek.

  ‘I see you, I see you!’ shouted the girl, and her voice echoed in and out of the mountainside, bouncing off the cliffs all around.

  ‘Those are devils of eyes you’ve got in your head,’ muttered the troll, and he dared not try it again.

  When he reached the widder-woman’s house, tucked up and alone under the hillside, he hurled the sack in through the door.

  ‘There’s some food from that daughter of yours,’ he shouted after it, then added, ‘Things don’t weigh as heavy on her as they do on some folks, for sure.’ And with that he mopped his brow and lumbered home before the sun rose.

  Well, when the youngest daughter had lived in the mountain a good while longer, watching, waiting and biding her time, it happened that a billy-goat came too close to the cliff-side, trod on thin air and came tumbling down into the hill-troll’s halls.

  ‘And who asked you?’ yelled the troll, bad-tempered and sour. He grabbed the goat, wrenched off its head and threw it into the cellar.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ said the girl. ‘I could have kept that goat and played with it, bored as I am down here.’

  ‘No need to fret,’ said the troll who – despite his bad temper – was anxious to keep the girl good-natured. ‘I can quick enough stick life back into a billy-goat.’

  With that he took a pitcher that hung on the wall, sat the head back on the goat, smeared on ointment from the pitcher and set the goat on its feet, as good as any.

  ‘Aha!’ thought the girl.

  And she kept her eye on the pitcher and bided her time.

  She bided it for quite a while – and then a good while longer – but the time came at last when the hill-troll was away long enough for the girl to open the cellar, drag out her eldest sister, sit the head back on its neck and salve it from the pitcher, just as the troll had done with the goat. Straight away, the sister was as good as new. Then the girl put her sister in the sack and, whispering some words of advice, covered her over with food. As soon as the troll came in, she put on her foxiest face.

  ‘Dearest sweet!’ she said. ‘Won’t you go home to mother with a little food again? She’s all alone and hungry and thirsty, poor thing, with no one to care.’

  Well, the troll was willing to go, so long as she stayed sweet and stayed in the mountain – and he said he wouldn’t look into the sack, either, since she was so particular about it.
But when he had gone quite a way, he couldn’t help thinking how heavy it was, and when he had gone a bit further he said to himself he would have a look and see what was in it after all.

  ‘Whatever sort of eyes she has,’ he said to himself, ‘she won’t be able to see me now.’

  But just as he went to loosen the top, the sister hiding inside cried out, ‘I see you! I see you!’

  The troll nearly split with surprise. ‘Those are devilish eyes you have in your head,’ he muttered, thinking it was her in the mountain who spoke. He dared not pry again, but hurried to the widder-woman as fast as he could and hurled the sack in through the hovel door.

  ‘Here’s more food from your daughter,’ he shouted after it. ‘Things don’t weigh half as heavy on her as they do on some folks.’

  And off he lumbered home to beat the sunrise.

  Well, when the girl had been in the mountain yet another good while, she did the same with her other sister – hauled her out, sat the head on her, smeared her with trollsalve and got her in the sack. Then she filled the gaps with as much silver and gold as there was room for, and put only a skimming of food across the top.

  ‘Kindest, sweetest dear,’ she said to the hill-troll. ‘Off you go again, now, home to my ma, poor starving thing that she is, with no one to care. But don’t you go snooping in the sack it, hear? I’ll see if you do!’

  Well, he must have been an obliging troll, for all his vicious ways, because he was willing to humour her and take the sack; and he wouldn’t look into it, either, so long as she stayed put and stayed sweet.

  But when he had gone along a bit, the sack seemed devilish heavy; and when he had gone along further, he set the sack down for a spell while he caught his breath. Once it was down, though, he thought he might loosen the top; and once the top was loose, he thought he might take a peek after all. But the girl in the sack had been warned by her sister and shouted, ‘I see you, well enough! I see you, and all!’, and the troll was so shocked that he ran with the sack – gold, girl and everything – all the way to the mother’s hut.

  ‘Here you have food from yer daughter,’ he said, heaving it in through the door. ‘Things don’t weigh as heavy on her as they do on some folks, for sure.’

  And off he hurried home before the sun rose.

  Well, the girl waited in the mountain till as near to midsummer as she could bear. Then she took her chance one evening and started up with whimpering and whining.

  ‘There’s no point your coming home before midnight,’ she said to the troll, ‘because I’ll never have your dinner done before that, miserable and sick as I am.’

  Well, the hill-troll didn’t want her sour, so he went and stayed out for as long as she wanted him gone. In the meantime, however, the girl took off her fine clothes and stuffed them full of stubble and straw. Then she propped the straw girl in the chimney corner, stuck a ladle in its hand so that it looked as if she herself stood there, climbed up and out into the fresh air and ran home.

  At midnight, or thereabouts, the hill-troll returned.

  ‘Bring me my food, then,’ he said to the straw girl. ‘You’ve had time enough, wretched or not.’

  But she made no reply.

  ‘Bring me my food, I am telling you,’ said the troll again. ‘I’m hungry with waiting, and the nights are short.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Bring me my food!’ shrieked the troll. ‘Hear what I say, or I’ll wake you like you never got woke before, I will!’

  But the girl was as silent as ever.

  Then the troll clean forgot about keeping her sweet. He laid into the straw girl with his boots till the stubble flew; and when he saw the clouds of straw and put one and one together, he lost his temper so badly he almost burst. He went raging through his halls and caverns – crashing and roaring, heaving and smashing – hunting high and low for the girl. Eventually he reached the cellar. There they were, both of the sisters – gone as if they’d never been.

  ‘So, that’s how it is, is it?’ he shrieked. ‘She’ll pay for this, she will, ungrateful wretch!’

  And, without a thought for the short summer night, the hill-troll was out and on his way to the widder-woman’s hut.

  But the youngest daughter – home with her mother and sisters – had timed it well. No sooner was the troll within sight of the hovel, teeth bared and tail lashing, than the night was good as over. The sky brightened, gold rimmed the tops of the mountains and the troll had to get home again, as fast as he could, if he wanted to stay alive.

  But even as he reached his mountain, the sun came up and shone on his face, sharp and strong, just as the girl had intended.

  And so the hill-troll burst into smithereens.

  As for his silver and gold – hidden away in his mountain halls – there’s enough of it left for us all … if only we knew how to find it!

  Whitebear

  Well, there was a time – and there wasn’t a time – and in that time there was a king. He had two daughters who were meaner than trolls, but his third daughter was as sweet as a sunny day, and for that reason everyone loved her.

  She dreamt once, this girl, of a golden wreath, twined and twisted with buds and leaves and nuts and flowers so cleverly made it was hardly true – a golden wreath so rich and round that when she woke up and knew it was only a dream, the princess couldn’t speak for disappointment.

  And when she realised it would never be hers – dream thing that it was – she grew pale and trembling with wishing for what she couldn’t have.

  When the king heard she was grieving over a dream-wreath, he asked her how it looked and what its shape was. Then he had a paper wreath made which he sent out far and wide to see if anyone could come up with something like it.

  Wonder-wreaths and marvels of every kind were delivered to the king, but the princess tossed them aside. No wreath could ever match the one she’d seen in her dream.

  But one day, as she was wandering in the woods near her home, she saw a whitebear through the trees, frisking and frolicking with the very wreath of her desires – tossing and tumbling it between his heavy paws.

  ‘Your wreath,’ she said to the bear, ‘I’d like to buy it from you.’

  ‘You can have it,’ said the bear, ‘for the right price.’

  ‘Name it,’ said the princess.

  ‘You can have it in exchange for the one who wants it most,’ the bear said.

  I’d pay with my life, thought the princess to herself, though my life’s worth nothing without it, while to the whitebear she said, ‘It makes no difference to me.’

  So they agreed that the whitebear would come to the king’s house in three days time and – as his fee for the wreath – fetch the one who wanted it most.

  When the king heard of his girl’s bargain he was not alarmed – in fact, he was secretly pleased. With two mean daughters on his hands, he thought he might have found a chance to be rid of at least one of them.

  So, when the whitebear arrived as promised on the Thursday night, the king sent out his eldest daughter – sour as a troll-hag and crankier than a cornered shrew – because she was the one he could easiest do without. The whitebear handed over the wreath, took the princess on his back and loped off with her.

  When they had travelled far, and further than far, the whitebear said, ‘Tell me, have you ever ridden so smooth, or seen so fine a view, as you now do from my back?’

  ‘No,’ said the eldest princess.

  ‘Then you’re not the right one,’ said the bear, and he shook her from his shoulders and sent her home.

  The following Thursday the bear returned. This time the king sent out his next eldest daughter – spitfire that she was – and the whitebear took her on his back and lumbered off into the evening. When they had travelled far and further than far, he asked her, ‘Have you ever ridden so smooth, or seen so fine a view, as you now do?’

  ‘No,’ said the second princess.

  ‘Then you’re not the right one, either,’ said t
he whitebear, and setting her on her own two feet, he left her to get home as best she could.

  The third Thursday evening he came again, and this time the king had no choice. Out went his youngest daughter, after all, to fulfil the bargain she had made.

  The bear took her on his back and together they went – far and further than far, deep into a wilderness of forest and cliffs – and when they gone so far and so deep that the princess didn’t think they could get any further, he asked her, as he had asked the others, whether she had ever sat smoother or seen finer.

  ‘When I sat in my mother’s womb I sat smoother,’ said the youngest princess, ‘and when I looked out through my mother’s eyes, I saw clearer.’

  ‘Then you’re the right one,’ he said and, passing through a gorge, carried her up to a castle so fine that her father’s home seemed shabby by comparison.

  And there the princess lived, both idle and grand. She had nothing in the world to do but sit with her hands folded and, from time to time, see that the fire stayed lit.

  By day she sat alone. She saw no one and said nothing. But at night – when all was dark in the lampless castle and she couldn’t see past her own nose – the bear came home and stayed with her. And though by day he was a lumbering shaggy beast, by night he seemed and felt and behaved so human-like that she could almost have believed he was a man.

  And so it went for three years. If all had gone well, the princess might have been content. But when, every year, she gave birth to a baby girl, the whitebear came in, took it from its cradle and – with neither apology nor explanation – carried it away.

  The princess grew thin and trembling. In the end, she couldn’t stand it any longer – not the daytime silence, not the night-time dark, and not the empty cradles.