The Farmer's Daughter

In a small village in the mountains, there lived a poor farmer with his only child, a daughter eighteen years old. She was not a terribly beautiful girl, but she was brave and strong, and had a good heart. She never complained, not in cold nor hunger nor hard labor. Often she ventured far from her village, and held no fear of the woods, despite the strange and wicked beasts who dwelt there.

It happened that one morning she went alone into the mountains to a lake she knew to look for wild plants and fish. As she walked around the shore, a sudden gust of wind tore the scarf from her hair. She ran to catch it before it landed in the water. So intent was she that she did not see the stranger until she had crashed into him, and they both had tumbled to the ground. 

Now, since these were evil times when any stranger could be a monster in disguise, the farmer’s daughter did not apologize and help the young man up. Instead, she sprang to her feet and eyed him warily. She spread her hands to show she held no weapon. He did the same. His dark traveling clothes gave him a threatening air, but his gray eyes bore no ill will. “Who are you? Where do you come from?” he asked.

“I am a farmer’s daughter from the village in that valley yonder,” she replied cautiously. (In those times, few people gave out their names lest the spirits overhear and work more evil.)

“Then we are neighbors,” he smiled, “for my village is just a few miles north of here.”

They fell to talking, and soon felt at ease in each others’ company. Hours flew by. Only after noon had come and gone did the farmer’s daughter realize she ought to have been home long before. She begged her leave of her friend, but promised to see him again the following week. And so they met again by the lake, and again, and again, to talk and laugh together. Soon they fell in love, and that summer passed in great joy.

But one morning early in the winter, he did not come. The farmer’s daughter waited patiently, but still he did not come. With fear in her heart (he could all too easily have been eaten by spirits), she returned down the path towards home. As she approached her village’s walls, she was struck by the silence. Usually all sorts of sounds pervaded the streets: shouts, squeals, barks, the clucking of hens, the ringing of tools. But now she heard only a mournful wind sighing through the trees. Cold dread filled her stomach. She ran through the gates, then stopped short. Children, women, men, all faces she knew and loved, lay dead in the streets, their blood pooling crimson in the mud. Not a soul stirred. 

Numb to the horror, the farmer’s daughter made her way through the streets, praying that her father had somehow survived. But no: he lay in their doorway, a great red rent across his throat. And now the girl could not hold back a wail of grief, nor the tears that followed. She fell to the ground and sobbed like a small child. 

Some time later, she returned to herself. She rose slowly, and dried her eyes. A cold resolve now throbbed in her blood. Some evil spirit from the woods had claimed her village, but she would have her revenge. She braided her hair tightly and drew her scarf close around her head. She retrieved the sharpest knife from inside her house, as well as the little food that remained. Then she took a deep breath and stepped out into the street to seek some sign of what kind of monster had committed this slaughter, and where it had gone.

Examining the mud, she saw a strange track: something between a beast and a bird’s, with four huge claws that left deep imprints in the ground. The trail led her out of her village and deep into the mountains, far beyond the ranges she had roamed. But she followed, for miles and miles, even as the trees clustered closer, their dark limbs reaching out to grab her. At last she beheld a great fortress hewn out of the side of a mountain. The tracks ended at its gates.

Weary now, for she had walked a long way, she seated herself on a nearby boulder. Suddenly, a door opened in the mountainside, where before had been only smooth rock. From the crack she heard the clamor of a massive kitchen. An old woman stepped outside and emptied a jug. The girl sprang from her perch and darted to the door before it closed. “Please,” she begged the old woman, “might I find work here?”

“No. Get out.”

“But I have nowhere else to go, and I am no stranger to hard work! I will not complain.”

“Why are you still here? Leave.”

But she pleaded with such desperation that the old woman finally relented. She led the girl to a basin of hot water and a mountain of dishes, and directed her to wash them. For long hours she scrubbed and rinsed, and the dishes never ended, and yet not once did she complain. At last, close to midnight, a bell rang, and the kitchen staff retreated to their sleeping quarters, the girl among them. 

Every day became a blur of dishes washed, floors swept, vegetables chopped, jugs filled and emptied, shouting, beatings, and so much food but so little for her. But she did not give up. By night, she stole through the fortress’s halls, her knife in hand, slinking through the shadows in search of her foe. Though she never found the monster, she learned many things. Humans served here, dozens of them, but there were other things, too. Dark things, in the shapes of birds and beasts and men. An evil king ruled over them all: once a man, he’d surrendered his soul to the spirits in exchange for unspeakable powers.

A month or so went by. Then one afternoon, a great commotion arose in the courtyard. All the kitchen staff raced out to see what was happening. The girl pushed her way to the front of the crowd. In the courtyard’s center, a huge shadowy monster lay shuddering, roiling between bird and beast, dripping dark blood in the snow. With a shock, she recognized its strange feet with their four long claws. This was the monster she sought!

Suddenly it seemed to contract—and her beloved stood in its place, his clothes torn and bloodied. His eyes widened as they met hers. She bit back a scream and melted into the crowd. He was the monster who’d slaughtered her village! She did not want to believe his treachery, but she could not deny it. She thought back to all the kisses they’d shared, and the sweetness turned to poison in her memory. 

That night, she crept through the halls with her knife, and came to the room in which the murderer slept. She slipped inside, raised her blade above his sleeping form, brought down her fist—but suddenly he was awake, wresting the knife from her hand and throwing it aside! She screamed, and threw herself at him like an enraged beast, kicking and clawing and biting. But he fought back, and soon held her wrists fast as she sobbed in thwarted fury. “Please, just listen to me!” he cried. “If ever you loved me even a little, listen!”

She glared at him, but she listened. Four years ago, the king-in-the-mountain had taken him from his village, cursed him with the shadow-beast, and forced him to do terrible things. Soon he despaired of ever finding freedom, even as the curse’s hold on him grew stronger. Out of nowhere, it seemed, the farmer’s daughter had come to show him love and joy once more. But when the king saw his renewed hope, he grew enraged, and ordered him to slay her and her entire village. He resisted with all his strength, but the king overpowered him. He left the village with only death behind him. “I thought I’d killed you,” he whispered, fighting his tears. “I am so, so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”

And now love stirred in her heart once more. She reached out her hand to his face, and kissed him tenderly. “I believe you,” she murmured, “and I forgive you.”

He sighed. “What are we going to do? I don’t have long before this curse consumes me completely. And only the king-in-the-mountain can release me.”

“Then I will stand before him and demand he free you.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Not if you stand beside me and help me in whatever way you can. Resist him, if that is all you can do.”

“I will, my love, with all the power I have left.”

She did not leave his side ‘til dawn, when she stole back to her place in the kitchens. That day, the king ordered a great feast thrown in honor of his latest guests. The kitchen staff worked feverishly to prepare the roasts and stews and breads. When it came time for the feast to be served, the girl joined the other young women with their pitchers in the cavernous hall. They walked among the tables, pouring mead for shadows and strange figures.

Soon her beloved was at her side. She took his hand, set down her pitcher, and strode up to the high table. In a ringing voice, she pronounced, “I demand that you lift your curse from the man beside me!”

Silence shot across the hall. The king fixed his eyes upon the girl’s. Though she trembled under his gaze, she remained undaunted. Then suddenly the king laughed. “You certainly have courage, little kitchen maid. For that I will not strike you dead. Perhaps I will even free your man, though he has been most useful to me. However, I will only do so if you complete three tasks.”

“Name them,” she said. 

“First: fetch me a stone from the top of the mountain above my fortress, with no tool other than your bare hands. If you do not return by midday tomorrow…” he laughed, “I shall order your beloved to slay you.” 

“I will do this.”

At dawn she left the fortress and climbed a crumbling old stair up the mountainside. The ascent seemed to last forever. Soon she was drenched in sweat. Her legs and lungs burned. At last, she came to the mountain’s crown. White stones lay scattered in the dead grass. She selected one she could carry easily. Astonishingly, it felt as light as a loaf of bread in her arms, though it should have weighed as much as she did. A part of her suspected ill forces at play, but she began her descent.

She had not gone far before she realized that her stone was growing heavier. Already it weighed as much as a child, though she was not yet a quarter of the way down the mountainside. By the time she reached the bottom, she would scarcely be able to carry it at all!

Stricken, she set down her stone to think. An idea struck her. She stepped to the edge of the stairs, and pushed her stone over. Seconds later, a crash sounded as the stone smacked into the road. Now she raced down the rest of the stairs, praying she had guessed aright. When she took up her stone once more, it was indeed no heavier than when she had dropped it.

With every step she took, the stone’s weight increased. When she passed through the gates, she was sweating under its weight. Her arms shook; her back ached; her face was fixed in a snarl. But she continued. A century later, it seemed, she crossed the threshold of the great hall. She cast down her burden and cried, “See, I have brought you your stone! Tell me now my next task.”

The king laughed. “It seems you are strong, little kitchen maid. But strength will not aid you in your second task. Beneath the deepest dungeons of this fortress, there runs a cold river. Fill the pitcher beside it with its water and bring it to me by sunset without spilling a drop. You know what awaits you if you fail.”

“I will do this.”

At once she set out for the door to the dungeons. Darkness drenched the narrow stairs. She could not even see her feet as she inched her way down. In the dungeons, she groped blindly through the darkness until her outstretched arms met a wooden door. She located the handle and pushed; the door stayed shut. She shoved again, and still the door did not move. Then she seized the handle and pulled with all her strength—

And the door gave way before her. She slipped through and shut it. Here shadows clustered thickly. She strained her ears, and heard the trickle of water somewhere far below. She eased her way through the darkness, down another stair. The trickle swelled into a roar as she descended. Soon her feet hit flat ground. She shuffled her steps, wary of plunging into the water by mistake. At last, the river thundering in her ears, she found the bank. She cast about in the darkness for the pitcher, then stooped to draw out some of the frigid river water. She bore her burden back to the stairs. She did not see the shadows swirling behind her. She did not see them congealing into a dark and towering form. She did not see this terrible creature take its first silent step towards her. But by some instinct, she knew she was being followed. 

Yet she could not run, lest she spill a drop from her pitcher. Fear sent its icy tendrils through her heart. She hastened her ascent as much as she dared. Her breaths came fast now; her heartbeat pounded in her ears. At the top of the stairs, she set down her pitcher and wiped the sweat from her hands. She scoured the surface of the door—and found only smooth wood, for this side had no handle!

Fighting back panic, she shoved at the door. It refused to yield. She pounded against it, nearly weeping with fear and frustration. But the door was sealed shut, and that dark looming evil was only an arm’s length away… No, she thought. If she was to meet her death here, she would face it with dignity. She rested her forehead against the door for a moment to still her racing heart. Then she turned. Darkness swallowed her vision, darkness deeper than anything she had known. She lifted her chin, defiant—

And with a terrible screech, the door opened behind her. Without thinking, she scooped up her pitcher and rushed through, straight into her beloved, who slammed the door shut behind her. “What was that?” she gasped, scarcely able to believe that she was still alive. 

“Something evil.” He hugged her tight, his face in her hair. “You were supposed to die—I had to come—”

“But I am safe now, thanks to you,” she said. “Let us leave this place. I have only one task left before you are free of him.”

Together they emerged from darkness into the corridor. They entered the cavernous hall for the last time. She set down her pitcher at the high table and waited. The king looked displeased. He was silent for a long while. At last he spoke. “It seems you are brave, too, little kitchen maid. But your third task is the hardest of all.”

“Tell me,” she said. 

He smiled evilly. “Take your beloved’s hand, hold him fast, and we shall see how stubborn you are.”

“I will do this,” she said, and clasped her love’s hand in hers. He gazed back at her with trust in his eyes. Suddenly he doubled over in pain. “No!” he cried. “Nonononononono!”

And the king laughed in triumph as the man struggled madly against something roiling inside himself. The kitchen maid tightened her hold on his wrist. “Stay with me,” she whispered.

But he could no longer hear her, for he was growing into a dark and horrible creature, sprouting feathers and sharp claws and shadows until red light filled his eyes and he shook and howled against her grip. Yet she stood her ground, and did not yield.

Though he beat his enormous wings and scratched at her arms and face, she did not yield.

Though he swelled to immensity and thrashed so violently against the ceiling that small stones fell to the floor and the walls trembled and the gathered spirits began to scream and run in terror, she did not yield.

Though the whole fortress crumpled about them and chunks of rock the size of houses thundered to the ground and the king was crushed and the shadows shrieked and fled, she did not yield.

At last her beloved was in her arms, human again, her hand still tightly clasping his. 

…

Now, some will say the brave kitchen maid and her beloved were crushed to death in the crumbling of the mountain. But I don’t think that’s a very good ending, given all the grief they went through. I prefer to think the gods (well, some of them) took pity on the pair and changed them into birds, allowing them to fly away to safety. I prefer to think they settled by the lake where they met and lived a long and happy life together. But all this happened long ago, so who really knows what happened?