The Hunter Maiden

by Ethel Johnston Phelps

  A moment later, everything in the house that the devil had spun or knitted turned to dust.

  When this happened the squire was far away on the moor, hunting as usual. It was a cold day with a piercing wind. Suddenly his long socks dropped off, then his britches, and then every garment that was homespun, till he was clad in nothing at all but his leather shoes and jerkin.

  He arrived home blue with cold and shivering like a leaf.

  “Ah, Duffy,” he said when his teeth stopped chattering and he could speak. “You see what’s happened to me! It must be the witches’ curse on me for breaking up their dance! Bring me some stockings and britches quickly.”

  Duffy shook her head sadly. “All the yarn goods in the house must be cursed as well, for they have all turned to dust!”

  When the squire saw that this was true, he groaned at his loss. “But you can spin me some more, Duffy!”

  Duffy shook her head again. “It will do no good. You can see that all the spinning and knitting done in this house is cursed. We’d best have the work done elsewhere.”

  This advice didn’t please the squire at all, until Duffy said sensibly, “Would you want all your clothes to drop off out on the moor in the dead of winter—or the blankets on our bed to turn to dust on a cold winter’s night?”

  The very thought of these disasters was enough to convince the squire. “I’d be a laughingstock in the county, if I didn’t freeze to death first!” he muttered.

  So the squire’s spinning and knitting were done in the village. Duffy was well content with her bargain, and the squire hunted happily ever after.

  The Cornish tale “Duffy and the Devil” was adapted from a story in Popular Romances of the West of England (1865), written by ROBERT HUNT. The devil, Terrytop, appears in many variations of this fairy tale—most notably “Rumpelstiltskin.”

  Avery long time ago there lived a young nobleman named Lanval, whose only ambition was to be a champion. In all the principal castles of the country, knights competed in jousts and tilting bouts. Lanval longed to win fame as the greatest champion of all.

  When Lanval was scarcely eighteen years of age, he came into a comfortable inheritance and set off at once for the castle of the nearest earl. He bought the finest horses and armor, the richest clothes. He was openhanded and generous to everyone. In short, he lived as if there could be no end to his wealth.

  Lanval stood well in the earl’s favor and was popular with the knights who thronged the earl’s castle. He had only one fault: he often spoke impulsively, without thought.

  One day the earl announced that he was going to marry King Ryan’s daughter from Ireland. This choice privately dismayed his knights and companions.

  “King Ryan’s daughter!” exclaimed Lanval impulsively. “I’m sorry to hear that!”

  “Are you indeed? What do you have against the lady?” asked the earl.

  Lanval now felt uncomfortable and wished he could learn to hold his tongue. Everyone at the castle had gossiped about the lady. Few thought her a wise choice for a bride—but no one had spoken this aloud to the earl.

  “It’s said she’s mean and sharp-tempered,” answered Lanval lamely.

  “The lady brings a good dowry and is the most beautiful of Ryan’s daughters,” said the earl coldly. “That is enough for me.”

  So, with many days of feasting, the marriage took place. But ill-said words travel fast, and the lady took a dislike to Lanval. On the last day of the wedding feast, the new countess gave a lavish gift to each of the earl’s knights—except Lanval. This pointed public insult was more than Lanval could bear. He felt his days as companion to the earl were over; there was nothing to do but withdraw from the castle.

  Taking a small band of retainers with him, he rode off aimlessly, staying at one castle after another, jousting in every tournament. And of course he spent money as freely as ever.

  Barely a year later he found himself penniless. His retainers, long unpaid, rode away. Unable to pay his bill, Lanval stayed on at the inn where he had lodged. His fine tournament steeds and gear were gone; he had not even money for food. He was in the lowest depths of despair. He could not think what to do.

  Borrowing a hack horse for a few hours from the innkeeper’s kindhearted daughter, he rode out from the town and into the forest. Here he dismounted and sat down to consider his bleak future.

  It was at this point that the Lady Triamor decided to take a hand in Lanval’s fortunes. Lanval’s youth and ambition had taken her fancy—and women of the fairy world are known to admire openhanded generosity in humans.

  Lanval was quite startled to see the Lady Triamor appear suddenly before him. She had all the unearthly radiance and dazzling beauty that fairy women can assume at will. Her garments were of shimmering green, adorned with precious jewels, and her red-gold hair lay like glowing silk over her shoulders. Lanval was enchanted in every sense of the word.

  When the Lady Triamor began to speak, it was clear at once that she knew his situation.

  “What a pity that a brave and generous knight should be brought so low!” she said. “I would like to help you, dear Lanval.”

  “I am . . . grateful,” stammered Lanval.

  “I can give you what you most desire: a purse full of gold that will never be empty. No matter how many coins you take out, it will always be full. I can give you Blanchard, the finest tournament horse in the world, my banner, and Gifre, my groom. As long as you carry my banner as you ride, you will win every joust and every combat you undertake. No blow can harm you.”

  Lanval, stunned with joy, was scarcely able to believe his good fortune.

  “However, there are certain conditions attached to these gifts. You must forsake all other women and pledge yourself only to me. Although I will be invisible to others, I will come to you whenever and wherever you call me, to be your love. But remember this: If you ever speak to any human about me, our pact ends at once.”

  “Your conditions are easy. I gladly agree to them,” said he. “I am already deeply in love with you.”

  Lanval returned to the inn on the splendid white charger, Blanchard, attended by the groom, Gifre, riding the hack. In Lanval’s saddlebag was a heavy bag of gold.

  The Lady Triamor’s favor brought Lanval all that he had longed for. He won fame as champion in every jousting tournament in the land. In addition, his wealth was unending, and the radiant Triamor came to his chamber whenever he wished.

  After several years of traveling about, he returned to visit the castle of his former patron and friend, the earl.

  The earl’s countess noticed that Lanval, though wealthy, was still unmarried; although he was courteous to all the young ladies of the court, he favored none of them.

  Seeking him out when he was alone, the countess said to him spitefully, “None of the fine ladies here seem to please you. I think it very strange that after all these years you love no woman, and no woman loves you!”

  Alas, Lanval still had not learned to hold his tongue.

  “That’s not true,” he retorted. “I have my own lady, far more enchanting than anyone here!”

  “I doubt that!” sneered the countess, for she was extremely vain about her looks. “Although you’ve won fame and fortune, no one has seen this lady you speak of. Do you hide her away because she is so ugly and ill-favored?”

  “My Lady Triamor is the most beautiful woman in the world!” cried Lanval angrily. “Next to her, all the ladies in this castle are plain and dowdy!”

  This insult was of course unforgivable, and the countess rushed at once to the earl.

  Lanval returned to his chamber, ashamed of his thoughtless temper. There he found that his bag of gold was empty. When he looked out the window, he saw Gifre, holding Triamor’s banner, trotting away from the castle on Blanchard.

  The full weight of the disaster struck him like a blow. All was lost, including his Lady Triamor. He was penniless again.

  It was not long before fresh disaster overwhelmed Lanval.
He was summoned to the earl’s presence to answer charges before the assembled court.

  The countess charged that Lanval had asked to be her lover and that when she had angrily repulsed him, he had said she and all the ladies of the castle were plain and dowdy. Both insults were intolerable. The countess demanded Lanval’s death.

  Needless to say, the earl was furious at this abuse of his friendship and hospitality. He listened to Lanval’s explanation but did not believe him.

  “I swear I did nothing—said nothing of love to the countess!” Lanval pleaded. “I said my Lady Triamor was so enchantingly beautiful she would make the ladies of the castle seem plain. I apologize to the ladies for my discourteous words. But I spoke only the truth about my Lady Triamor!”

  Many of those assembled in the great hall for the trial were friends of Lanval. They knew him to be thoughtless and impulsive—but also generous and honest. In addition, they knew the mean temper of the countess.

  “If the knight Lanval spoke only the truth about his own lady, surely he should not be punished by death!” they cried.

  At last the earl was persuaded that this was fair. Lanval must produce his Lady Triamor, and if all agreed she was as radiant in beauty as Lanval claimed, he would be pardoned.

  Sadly, Lanval returned to his chamber. He tried again and again to summon Triamor, but she did not appear. Their pact was broken.

  The earl had given Lanval seven weeks to produce his lady. As the time passed, Lanval’s friends eyed him anxiously. The countess wore an air of smug triumph. And all Lanval could do was to ride hopelessly through all the forests in the earl’s domain, searching for Triamor.

  When the seven weeks had passed, the earl and the court assembled in the great hall to pass judgment on Lanval.

  “I cannot bring my Lady Triamor before this court,” confessed Lanval. “I love her dearly, but I broke my word to her, and she has forsaken me.”

  A deep sigh of sorrow rippled through the company. Lanval was doomed.

  Just then a cry rang out: “Look! Someone comes!”

  Through the great open archway of the entrance, they could see a party of riders coming toward the castle. A buzz of speculation rose from the company.

  Over the drawbridge the Lady Triamor rode with seven attendants, all clad in jeweled cloth of gold. Each maiden was lovely, but the golden radiance of the Lady Triamor stunned and dazzled all who gazed at her.

  “Is this your lady?” asked the earl when he could find his voice.

  “This is my Lady Triamor.” Lanval went to her and knelt down for forgiveness.

  So powerful are the enchantments of fairy women that all the company in the hall stood transfixed. Not one could deny that Triamor was more dazzling than any woman in the world.

  “The knight Lanval is freed of the charge against him,” said the earl.

  Triamor motioned for Lanval to leap up behind her on her horse. When he was seated, the party turned and rode out of the castle. As long as they were in sight, no one could move or speak a word.

  Where they went nobody knows, for young Lanval was never seen again in this world.

  “Lanval and the Lady Triamor” is a Breton story of Lanval, a knight in King Arthur’s court. This version was drawn from fourteenth- and fifteenth-century manuscripts by the poet MARIE DE FRANCE that were edited and printed in scholarly collections during the nineteenth century. Another more recent edition of the tale is Middle English Verse Romances (1966), edited by DONALD SANDS.

  Long ago, the young Seneca maiden Bending Willow lived together with her parents, not far from the great falls called Niagara. The tribe was at peace, and the waterfowl and fish from the river were plentiful. But Bending Willow was very unhappy.

  Although several young warriors sought her in marriage, the most persistent and most unwelcome suitor was the chief, a cruel old man rightly named No Heart. His hair was as gray as a badger, and he had already buried three wives. However, he had great power in the tribe, and when he declared that he would take Bending Willow for his next wife, her parents dared not refuse him.

  Bending Willow had another reason for sadness; she had no living brother or sister to help or advise her. They had died from the mysterious sickness that so often attacked members of the tribe. Since her close friend, Laughing Water, had been taken, Bending Willow felt very much alone.

  The tribe blamed an evil spirit loose in the village for the mysterious sickness. Chief No Heart proclaimed that the marriage celebration of a chief would drive away this evil spirit. Then he set the day for the ceremony.

  When Bending Willow was told of this, she ran into the forest to be alone and think. She would not marry Chief No Heart. She did not believe the mysterious sickness would disappear if the marriage took place. At last she could think of only one solution: she must leave the village and escape to the lands across the wide river.

  Early the next morning before dawn, when all were sleeping, she dragged her father’s canoe to the edge of the river, stepped into it, and paddled swiftly out into the current.

  The night was still dark, with very few stars gleaming in the blackness above her, and the current at this time of the year was much stronger than she had expected. She paddled with all her strength for some time without success. Instead of making her way across the wide river, she found herself at dawn headed toward the rapids.

  The paddle was torn from her hands as the canoe tossed about wildly, like a withered branch, on the white-crested waves. The roar of the great falls filled her ears. Swiftly but surely she was borne toward the rocks at the edge of the great falls.

  She raised her eyes to the distant star still gleaming steadily in the morning grayness above. If only the Star Maiden would lift her up to the heavens!

  “I would rather be up in the sky forever than down at the bottom of the river!” she thought.

  For one moment only, she saw the bright white-and-green foam of water. Then she felt herself lifted on great white wings above the rocks. The water divided, and she passed into a dark cave behind the foaming spray.

  In the cave was a small creature with a white face and hair of soft white mist, like the mist that rises from the base of the falls. It was the water spirit Cloud-and-Rain, who had rescued her and taken her into his lodge. The door of his lodge was the green wave of Niagara, and the walls of the cave were of gray rock studded with white stone flowers.

  Cloud-and-Rain gave her a warm wrapper and seated her on a heap of ermine skins in a far corner where the dampness was shut out by a magic fire. He brought her fish to eat and delicate jelly made from mosses only the water spirits can find.

  When she was rested, Cloud-and-Rain told her he knew her story. “No Heart is not a wise leader for your people,” he said. “The campsite of the village is a bad one. It is too close to the swamp. When the sickness came, he did not listen to the elders’ advice to move.”

  “You know of the mysterious sickness!” cried Bending Willow. “It has taken my brothers and sister and my friend Laughing Water. No one knows what evil spirit brings it or how to drive it away!”

  “There are herbs to help and knowledge of how to use them. That I can teach you.” Cloud-and-Rain was silent for a time. “Yes, there are many things I can teach you that will help your people. The water of your village is bad, poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Bending Willow stared at him in perplexity. “What evil spirit did that? I do not understand.”

  “Listen carefully if you wish to save the lives of your tribe,” said the water spirit Cloud-and-Rain. “A great serpent lies underneath the ground of your village. He poisons the springs from which you draw the water to drink. When people die, the serpent is pleased, and more and more poison seeps into your springs. Even now the spring that No Heart uses is fouled, and he will soon die.”

  “If you can teach me how the village can get rid of this evil serpent, I will stay with you gladly,” said Bending Willow.

  “When you return,” said Cloud-and-Rain, “you
must persuade your people to move their camp. Let them come to dwell nearer to me, in the high upland.”

  Bending Willow stayed three months with Cloud-and-Rain. He taught her much medicine skill and showed her the herbs to cure sickness.

  One day when he came in from fishing, he said to her, “Chief No Heart is dead. This night I will throw a bridge from the foot of the waters across the falls to the high hills. You must climb it without fear, for I will hold it firmly until you are on the land.”

  When the moon rose, casting a gleam of silver on the waters, Cloud-and-Rain caused a gentle wind to raise the spray until it formed a great white arch reaching from his cave to the distant hills. He led Bending Willow to the foot of this bridge of mist and helped her start off. Higher and higher she climbed, brave and confident, until she descended the misty arch onto the high upland.

  When she returned to the village, the tribe welcomed her joyfully. No one blamed her for leaving the tribe to escape marriage with No Heart. They listened quietly when she told them of the water spirit Cloud-and-Rain and of the medicine wisdom he had taught her. But they would not agree to move their village to the uplands.

  “The swamp is a protection against enemy attack,” they said, “and there are plentiful fish and waterfowl here.”

  “The upland farther down the river is safer,” she answered. “The water is pure. There are many herbs and plants to cure sickness. Here the water springs are poisoned by an evil serpent spirit who lies hidden under the ground.” But they shook their heads in disbelief.

  When the tribe would not accept the wisdom she had brought from the water spirit, Bending Willow at first felt discouraged. But the months she had spent with Cloud-and-Rain had given her confidence and courage, as well as wisdom. She spoke to her mother and other women of the village separately. Several of them were persuaded that the water spirit’s advice was sound.

  Bending Willow led these women to the high uplands to draw their water from the clear springs bubbling out from the rocks. Then the women carried the water carefully back to the village. They did this for several months. Neither the women nor any of their families who used this water fell ill. Of those using the village water, some sickened—among them were strong warriors as well as two of the new chief’s children.