Tatterhood (3 page)

Footsteps sounded louder and louder through the house. Suddenly her betrothed burst into the room, dragging a young woman behind him by the gold of her hair. She was wailing and pleading, begging for mercy, but her tears made no difference.

The man ripped everything from her – her gold, her clothes, her very life. He tore at it all, and all came away except a gold band on her finger which wouldn't budge no matter how he clawed. So he drew his knife and chopped, hacking with such force that the finger flew off and rolled under the bed.

Reaching out, the girl took the finger and hid it in the folds of her skirt, ring and all.

The man bent down and fumbled in the darkness under the bed. As he groped, his hand touched her skirt. She neither blinked nor breathed; he swept the fabric aside with a curse and kept fumbling for the missing finger.

‘It is too far under,' he muttered at last. ‘I'll find it in the morning when it's light.'

So the man went out, leaving his bride-to-be alone beneath the bed, where she watched and waited, breathing amongst the bones, the long night through.

But in the morning, instead of returning for the finger, the man went out.

The girl waited. She waited until the stillness of the house rang in her ears; and until the forest birds resumed their singing. Then she crept out, stole through the empty rooms, slipped from the house and followed the peas home to her father's farm, running all the way.

It wasn't many days before the groom came visiting again. He was dressed so finely, with his buckles and embroidery, that the girl found it hard to find fault with him.

‘Why didn't you call last week, as we'd arranged?' he asked. ‘Did I not promise to surprise you?'

In truth, his sweetheart had never been more astonished in her life; but she changed the subject and invited him to attend a feast they wanted to arrange in his honour.

He agreed, and invitations were sent out to neighbouring valleys. Farmers with arms like cudgels and smiths with hands like sledge-hammers were soon crowding her father's hall.

At last, with the meat and potatoes all gone, with the marrow sucked from the bones and the fat from the eyes of the trout, the girl's father asked the company to tell their tales. There were stories from every valley, and one after another they were told – some tales true and others tall – but all the while the bride sat silent and said nothing.

Finally her man said to her, ‘Well, my dear? Haven't you anything to say? Come along, entertain us with a story.'

She paused, as if in thought.

Then at last she said, ‘I had a dream some nights ago, a dream which surprised me. If you wish to listen, I'll tell it to the end.'

Well, the farmers and the smiths and the millers with their arms like knotted wood and their fists like rocks promised they would listen to the end. And her sweetheart promised too.

‘I dreamed that I walked along a broad and sunny path,' she said, ‘and that where I walked, there were strewn peas, green as emeralds in the sunlight.'

‘And so it would have been, had you cared to visit me, my dear,' said her man.

‘Then the road grew narrower, and the light dimmer, until it led me into wilderness and forest,' said she.

‘And so it is along the road to my house,' said the groom.

‘But then at last I came to a clearing in the forest and there I saw an elegant house.'

‘Then you must have been dreaming of my house,' said he.

‘I went into the kitchen. There was not a creature, but for a bird in a cage, and as I went into the parlour, it called after me.'

‘Indeed, you dreamt of my house,' said the man. ‘Especially if the parlour there was fine.'

‘So it was,' said she. ‘And when I went into a bedchamber, the bird called again – “Be bold,” it cried, “but not too bold” – and there I saw a great many chests. When I looked into them, they were filled with silver and gold.'

‘That was my house you dreamt of, my dear,' said the groom. ‘I have just such chests.'

‘Then, in my dream, I went into another room,' she went on. ‘The bird called to me again as before, and there I saw costumes of all kinds, tossed and flung across every surface.'

‘Indeed, that was my house too, my dear.'

‘When I went into the next chamber, the bird started shrieking. And in that chamber there were casks and tubs …'

‘I too have casks and tubs,' said the man, ‘both painted and carved.'

‘Casks and tubs,' said she, ‘filled to the brim with blood.'

The man shifted in his seat. ‘God forbid that it should be so at my house,' he said.

‘My dear, it was only a dream,' said the young woman. ‘When I went into the next room, the bird was shrieking so loud that the pewter rattled in its racks. But still I went on, and there in the last room I found dead women and tangled skeletons.'

‘It isn't so at my house,' said the man, now looking towards the door. ‘Nor was it ever so.'

‘My dear, it was so in my dream,' said the young woman, ‘which you have promised to hear without fussing. So, in my dream, I ran out again. But I got no further than the blood-buckets, because the bird was shrilling at me to hide.

‘I hid myself amongst the corpses and, in my dream, a man came in, who had with him by the hair a girl so lovely that I never saw the likes. I dreamt that she wept and begged to be spared, but he cared not a whit for either weeping or entreaties. In my dream, he tore at her costly clothes and at her gold, and spared neither her life nor anything else. Then, in my dream, he chopped off the finger where she wore her ring, and it sprang into the air and flew under the bed … to me.'

‘It isn't so at my house,' cried the man, leaping to his feet and spilling mead. ‘That is nothing like what happens at my house.'

‘But it was at your house that it happened,' said she. And with that she produced the finger. ‘Here is the finger. And here is the ring. And you are the man who hacked it off!'

The groom had grown as pale as a corpse. He knocked the table sideways, sprang from his bench and would have escaped … had not the company leapt upon him, grabbed him and dragged him away.

It is said they beat him to death, and that they burnt his body and house till there was nothing left. But whether or not the bird got away – and whether or not the girl lived happily ever after – nobody cares to tell.

Once upon a time in the bad old days – when the world was worse than it is now, and far more muddy – there was a couple who had one daughter each. That is, there was Ma's girl and there was Pa's girl.

Ma's girl was sour and lazy and good for nothing, except for being mean. Pa's girl, on the other hand, was lively and cheerful and good for all sorts of things. She was good for so much, in fact, that she made Ma's girl sick just to be near her. One day, Ma's girl had an idea.

‘You are always so clever and forward,' she said to Pa's girl. ‘But even so, I'm not afraid to have a spinning contest with you. I'll spin flax, you spin bristles, and the first to snap her thread goes down the well.'

The contest wasn't entirely fair, but Pa's girl was willing to try it anyway, so they sat themselves by the well with their spindles – Ma's girl with her flax and Pa's girl with bristles – and started spinning.

In no time at all, Pa's girl broke her thread. Ma's girl pushed her into the well and down she fell, deeper and deeper, down through the slime and the dark. But instead of splashing into water and drowning as she should have, she landed on the warm grass of a sunny afternoon.

Dusting herself off, she started walking. Before long, she came to a brush fence which stood in her way, all bristles and twigs.

‘Tread easy on me, will you,' said the brush fence to Pa's girl, ‘and I'll help you in your own need, one day.'

So Pa's girl made herself light as feathers and trod so careful that she barely trod at all.

Then she walked a bit further, and soon passed a cow that was standing there with a bucket hanging from one of its horns. It was sleek and it was hefty – and its udders were so tight with milk it could barely move.

‘Be so good as to milk me, will you,' begged the cow. ‘Drink as much as you like, then sling the rest on my hooves and I'll help you in your own need, one day.'

Lively as ever, Pa's girl did as she was asked. The milk streamed into the bucket at her lightest touch, filling it foamy and full. Then she drank what she could, slung the remainder on the cow's hooves and hung the bucket back where it belonged.

When Pa's girl had gone a bit further, she came by a ram – a fine, fleecy creature with wool so long that it dragged along the ground and a pair of shears hooked over its horns.

‘Be so good as to shear me, will you,' said the ram, ‘for here I am, struggling with all this fleece and barely able to move. Take what you want for yourself, then wind the rest around my neck and I'll help you in your own need, one day.'

Pa's girl took the shears, plumped the ram on her lap and set to, snipping and clipping till it was bald as an
egg
. Then she took what she wanted of the fleece and looped the rest around the ram's neck.

A little further on, Pa's girl came to an apple tree. It was so laden with fruit that its boughs were twisted and bent to the ground.

‘Pick my apples from me, will you,' said the tree, ‘so that my branches can right themselves. Eat as much as you like, place the rest against my roots and I'll help you in your own need, one day.'

Pa's girl didn't mind apple-picking, so she plucked those she could reach, then took a stick and knocked down the rest. Then she ate her fill and piled the leftovers against the roots.

After that, Pa's girl walked through the valley and over a hill and came at last to a troll-farm, where a troll-hag came out to greet her.

‘Have you work for me here?' Pa's girl asked.

‘We don't hire folks,' replied the troll. ‘Good for nothing, folks are, whichever way you look at it.'

But Pa's girl was too brisk to be giving up so soon and begged to be taken on as servant.

In the end the troll-hag gave her a sieve and told her to fetch water in it.

‘I've never carried water in a sieve before,' said Pa's girl, but she took the sieve anyway and supposed she'd give it a try. When she reached the well she was greeted by a flock of birds, flapping and wheeling and shrilling. Listening closely, Pa's girl heard them say, ‘Smear with clay, stick in straw! Smear with clay, stick in straw!'

So Pa's girl smeared the sieve with mud and lined it with straw, and when the sieve was watertight, she filled it with water to take to the troll. When the troll-hag saw what Pa's girl had done, she muttered, ‘You didn't manage
that
off your own bat!' and sent her off down to the dairy to muck out and milk.

Well, the shovel in the dairy was so big and heavy that Pa's girl could barely lift it, no matter how briskly she went at it. But the birds wheeled in and shrilled on the rafters, and when Pa's girl listened closely she heard them say that if she tossed a little lime through the door, the muck would fly out after it. So she tossed the lime, and no sooner was that done than the dairy was fresher than butter.