The Witch and the Iron Daughter
May. 4th, 2006 09:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootA strange dark day, which ends with this story.
Once upon a time there was a village high in the mountains, beset by a terrible witch. Her hair streamed out behind her, white and stark as twigs, and her mouth foamed and her eyes flashed wild; sometimes she rode out with a hanged man and he urged her on, laughing, his head lolling on his neck. He could be held back by the water from the holy well or an honest person without fear telling him to begone. But nothing could stop her or the fearful mount she rode, a night mare; it began foolishly enough as a painted stick with a sack tethered to one end for a head, but as she galloped, it grew huge and black, long of limb and arched of neck, and as she spurred it on, its eyes burned aflame and it rose into the air, racing through cloudbanks and trailing storm behind it. And these were the gifts of the Witch; terror on the high peaks, blights on the corn, and dreams no-one dared describe.
They rode out every dark of the moon, she and her companion saddled up behind her, and the villagers huddled together and told stories, held each others' hands and prayed for deliverance. But it was no good; The thunder laughed and the moon just nodded above the trees, and the gallows down in the vale creaked with a certain amusement. The three danced onwards into the tempest, and laughed at the people below. Village telltales said they had seen the Witch in the graveyard digging up graves, that the heads of babies had been seen bouncing off the village chimneys; but such were never found. The gossips said she must have collected the heads up to use again. And the people shuddered in fear.
One night, when the judderman was looking for rats to feed on in the fat of the moon, he found the three of them playing in the black clouds, and he spoke to the Witch of what was happening in the village;
'They have got the blacksmith to make a weapon which will kill you,' he told the Witch, 'And it is made of iron,' but the Witch just laughed.
'Iron or not, the sword put into me will just slip right through!' She said.
The judderman shook his head. 'It is not a sword,' he told her.
'Iron or not, the shield held against me will shatter like glass'.
The Judderman shook his head. 'It is not a shield,' he said.
'Iron or not, the coins that buy my death, no purse can hold!'
The Judderman shook his head 'It is not a traded thing, rather a gift. So you should beware, Witch of the High Winds, for gifts are hard to withstand.' And with that, he wandered away down the mountainside, leaving no footprints behind him. The Witch laughed, though the hanged man was troubled, and the night mare rode on caring nothing at all.
But the dark of the moon came, and sure enough the Witch swooped down into the village, though her hanged man stayed behind. There in the centre of the deserted village square, stood an iron woman with a bundle beside her on the ground. Her face was smooth and her eyes glowed with a gentle blue pulse, and her body was panelled and graceful. The blacksmith had done his job with pride, and her hands were especially beautiful, dexterous and filigreed with sharp exquisite nails like needles.
These, the Witch guessed, were the weapons meant to destroy her, so she spurred her mount onwards and bent down in her saddle, a bone knife in her hand. She swept it up towards her foe, expecting the iron woman to gouge her with her nails. The Iron Daughter did indeed use her nails, but not as the Witch expected - her bone knife scraped a fine dent in the creature's shoulder, but not before its nails had slashed through the saddle belt of the night mare. The Witch tumbled sideways and off, and the horse, without her power to stir its blood, began to falter; first it whinnied then it slowed, trying to kick and rear. The Witch tried to attack the Iron Daughter with a spell, but that required thought, and as she began to chant, the Iron Daughter knocked the breath out of her body and she fell; Even then the enemy did not attack, but attached an iron shoe to each of the Witch's feet, at which point the bone knife jammed itself into the Iron Daughter's jaw and forced her back.
The nightmare reared, desperate for momentum to live, and the Witch tried to grant its wish by leaping on to its back; but she was not used to the iron shoes and could barely move. Then the beast's hooves began to shrink and its glowering head to lose form, and within two minutes, it rolled to the ground, a painted stick with a sack on one end. Two minutes after that, the Witch was shrinking too, a dandelion head on a puppet's body. It was then and only then that the long nails turned towards the Witch, and only when she was the size of a baby did the nails sunder head from neck. Then, though it was midnight, the church bells rang.
Then came a time of comfort for the village; no witches, no hanged men, no night mares. They kept the Iron Daughter in the village hall for all to marvel at, for she truly was a work of art, even with her marred jaw and scratched shoulder. But it was a strange thing; at first she was adored and then her glowing eyes and filigree hands seemed almost...almost a little shunned. Her story was loved, but a monument to her victory might have suited the villagers better, for they did not know how to deal with the reality of their saviour; she looked like a woman but she neither breathed nor bred nor wooed nor wed, and as such they had no understanding of her. In the end, those long claws and blank eyes made the people nervous, and the time came when they went to the blacksmith and asked him to melt her down.
Because the blacksmith loved her, he told her what was going to happen. She turned her face to him, and he almost cried; instead, he left her silently sitting in the village hall, as her last night came and no moon rose.
She got up from her chair and moved across to an old chest. She used one of her long nails as a key, and opened it. In it lay a painted stick with a sack on the end. She put it between her legs and tried to trot across the room on it, her gaunt body ridiculous, iron feet clanging and clumsy.
She opened the door of the hall and clutched the broom once more. She took a breath she didn't need, galloped across the floor and out into the square, where she almost felt a cantering echo beneath her, swelling into a great drum of movement; then, as she kept running, she felt the wood itself give way, and great breathing muscles rising, falling beneath her, even as she felt the wires on her head flow out white and glittering above eyes that flashed, eyes almost blinded by the mane and the great horse's head in front of her, as the beast raced along the crossroads to the gibbet where someone waited to be cut down...
Then the earth tilted skywards and the night beckoned them; the village fell away like ants under water, and the storms rolled down over the mountain.
In other news, we have never had mice before. We do now, because in a burst of feline ineptitude, Surya has brought one in, pursued it into one of my stiletto shoes and out again, and abandoned it under the sofa while she goes outside to chase bats...
Once upon a time there was a village high in the mountains, beset by a terrible witch. Her hair streamed out behind her, white and stark as twigs, and her mouth foamed and her eyes flashed wild; sometimes she rode out with a hanged man and he urged her on, laughing, his head lolling on his neck. He could be held back by the water from the holy well or an honest person without fear telling him to begone. But nothing could stop her or the fearful mount she rode, a night mare; it began foolishly enough as a painted stick with a sack tethered to one end for a head, but as she galloped, it grew huge and black, long of limb and arched of neck, and as she spurred it on, its eyes burned aflame and it rose into the air, racing through cloudbanks and trailing storm behind it. And these were the gifts of the Witch; terror on the high peaks, blights on the corn, and dreams no-one dared describe.
They rode out every dark of the moon, she and her companion saddled up behind her, and the villagers huddled together and told stories, held each others' hands and prayed for deliverance. But it was no good; The thunder laughed and the moon just nodded above the trees, and the gallows down in the vale creaked with a certain amusement. The three danced onwards into the tempest, and laughed at the people below. Village telltales said they had seen the Witch in the graveyard digging up graves, that the heads of babies had been seen bouncing off the village chimneys; but such were never found. The gossips said she must have collected the heads up to use again. And the people shuddered in fear.
One night, when the judderman was looking for rats to feed on in the fat of the moon, he found the three of them playing in the black clouds, and he spoke to the Witch of what was happening in the village;
'They have got the blacksmith to make a weapon which will kill you,' he told the Witch, 'And it is made of iron,' but the Witch just laughed.
'Iron or not, the sword put into me will just slip right through!' She said.
The judderman shook his head. 'It is not a sword,' he told her.
'Iron or not, the shield held against me will shatter like glass'.
The Judderman shook his head. 'It is not a shield,' he said.
'Iron or not, the coins that buy my death, no purse can hold!'
The Judderman shook his head 'It is not a traded thing, rather a gift. So you should beware, Witch of the High Winds, for gifts are hard to withstand.' And with that, he wandered away down the mountainside, leaving no footprints behind him. The Witch laughed, though the hanged man was troubled, and the night mare rode on caring nothing at all.
But the dark of the moon came, and sure enough the Witch swooped down into the village, though her hanged man stayed behind. There in the centre of the deserted village square, stood an iron woman with a bundle beside her on the ground. Her face was smooth and her eyes glowed with a gentle blue pulse, and her body was panelled and graceful. The blacksmith had done his job with pride, and her hands were especially beautiful, dexterous and filigreed with sharp exquisite nails like needles.
These, the Witch guessed, were the weapons meant to destroy her, so she spurred her mount onwards and bent down in her saddle, a bone knife in her hand. She swept it up towards her foe, expecting the iron woman to gouge her with her nails. The Iron Daughter did indeed use her nails, but not as the Witch expected - her bone knife scraped a fine dent in the creature's shoulder, but not before its nails had slashed through the saddle belt of the night mare. The Witch tumbled sideways and off, and the horse, without her power to stir its blood, began to falter; first it whinnied then it slowed, trying to kick and rear. The Witch tried to attack the Iron Daughter with a spell, but that required thought, and as she began to chant, the Iron Daughter knocked the breath out of her body and she fell; Even then the enemy did not attack, but attached an iron shoe to each of the Witch's feet, at which point the bone knife jammed itself into the Iron Daughter's jaw and forced her back.
The nightmare reared, desperate for momentum to live, and the Witch tried to grant its wish by leaping on to its back; but she was not used to the iron shoes and could barely move. Then the beast's hooves began to shrink and its glowering head to lose form, and within two minutes, it rolled to the ground, a painted stick with a sack on one end. Two minutes after that, the Witch was shrinking too, a dandelion head on a puppet's body. It was then and only then that the long nails turned towards the Witch, and only when she was the size of a baby did the nails sunder head from neck. Then, though it was midnight, the church bells rang.
Then came a time of comfort for the village; no witches, no hanged men, no night mares. They kept the Iron Daughter in the village hall for all to marvel at, for she truly was a work of art, even with her marred jaw and scratched shoulder. But it was a strange thing; at first she was adored and then her glowing eyes and filigree hands seemed almost...almost a little shunned. Her story was loved, but a monument to her victory might have suited the villagers better, for they did not know how to deal with the reality of their saviour; she looked like a woman but she neither breathed nor bred nor wooed nor wed, and as such they had no understanding of her. In the end, those long claws and blank eyes made the people nervous, and the time came when they went to the blacksmith and asked him to melt her down.
Because the blacksmith loved her, he told her what was going to happen. She turned her face to him, and he almost cried; instead, he left her silently sitting in the village hall, as her last night came and no moon rose.
She got up from her chair and moved across to an old chest. She used one of her long nails as a key, and opened it. In it lay a painted stick with a sack on the end. She put it between her legs and tried to trot across the room on it, her gaunt body ridiculous, iron feet clanging and clumsy.
She opened the door of the hall and clutched the broom once more. She took a breath she didn't need, galloped across the floor and out into the square, where she almost felt a cantering echo beneath her, swelling into a great drum of movement; then, as she kept running, she felt the wood itself give way, and great breathing muscles rising, falling beneath her, even as she felt the wires on her head flow out white and glittering above eyes that flashed, eyes almost blinded by the mane and the great horse's head in front of her, as the beast raced along the crossroads to the gibbet where someone waited to be cut down...
Then the earth tilted skywards and the night beckoned them; the village fell away like ants under water, and the storms rolled down over the mountain.
In other news, we have never had mice before. We do now, because in a burst of feline ineptitude, Surya has brought one in, pursued it into one of my stiletto shoes and out again, and abandoned it under the sofa while she goes outside to chase bats...
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Mice
Date: 2006-05-05 07:20 am (UTC)Re: Mice
Date: 2006-05-05 08:59 am (UTC)Re: Mice
Date: 2006-05-05 12:03 pm (UTC)Re: Mice
Date: 2006-05-05 12:55 pm (UTC)