by Lari Don
The witches replied from the depths of the cave. “We can’t come out today. It’s raining.”
“But our robes are dry!” said the rabbi. “How could we be standing here completely dry in our best robes if it was raining? Here, touch my robe.”
Hands reached out of the darkness: pale hands and dark hands, old wrinkled hands and young smooth hands, hands with long claws and hands with bitten-down nails.
The hands stroked the rabbi’s dry robe.
There was a moment’s silence. The students held their breath.
“It’s not raining!” the witches yelled. “If it’s not raining, we can dance!”
“We’ll wait for you outside, ladies.” The rabbi led his students out of the cave onto the hillside.
As the witches tidied their hair and put on their dancing shoes, they whispered and giggled. “When we’re tired of dancing with that foolish rabbi and his boys, let’s turn them into beetles!”
“Or toads!”
“Or fleas!”
Still laughing, the witches stepped out into the rain.
The moment the falling water hit them, they lost all their magic.
As the rabbi and his students watched, each witch was transformed.
Those who had set spells to make fires die became flames, to be blown away as ash on the wind.
Those who had set spells to make the cows run dry became blades of grass, to be eaten by the animals of the hill.
And those who had set spells to turn the family into winged creatures became worms on the ground, to be pecked up by the early birds of the morning.
When the rabbi and his students returned, soaking wet, to Ashkelon, they discovered that the transformed family had changed from birds and butterflies back into people.
But the baby was screaming angrily, because she’d enjoyed being a wriggly caterpillar!
Turnskin
Breton folktale
This story starts where most stories end: and they lived happily ever after...
Because this story starts with a tall, dark, handsome young lord, meeting and marrying a delicate, golden, city girl, then taking her home to his castle in Brittany, where they both hoped to live happily ever after.
But what happens after happily ever after?
The Lord and his Lady were happy for a month. Then the Lord, Bisclavret, went missing for three days. He simply vanished, into the thick forest around his castle.
When he came back, he refused to tell his new wife where he’d been, and he expected their happy ever after to continue. But she was confused and worried.
The same thing happened the next month, and the month after. Every month, Bisclavret was absent for a few days.
She demanded answers. “Where do you go? What do you do? Who are you with?”
But every time she asked, he changed the subject or made a joke.
He continued to disappear every month, for three or four days. Leaving his new young wife in charge of the castle, the lands, the staff and the guards, and refusing to answer her questions when he returned.
Eventually she said, “Bisclavret, we can’t have a happy ever after, unless you share your secrets with me. Tell me where you go and what you do. If you don’t, I’ll know you don’t love me after all.”
Bisclavret stopped joking and evading. He sighed and said he was afraid that if he told her, she would no longer love him. His new wife smiled and held his hand, and promised that whatever he said she would still love him.
So he told her his secret.
“I am a turnskin,” he said. “My skin is human on the outside but on the inside, my skin is covered with dark grey hair. On the inside, I wear wolfskin. When I feel the itch start and the turn approach I leave my castle and my people, and I go into the forest so I can’t hurt anyone.”
His wife let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around her chest. “You become a wolf?”
“Yes. I become a wolf. I knew you would be shocked. I knew you would stop loving me.”
“But I don’t understand. How do you eat, where do you sleep...? If I can understand, if you tell me everything, I’m sure I will still love you.” She took his hand again, her fingers trembling.
Bisclavret told her almost everything. How he lived in the forest, what he hunted, how it felt to run and howl. There was only one thing he didn’t tell her.
“I can’t tell you where I hide my clothes,” he said, when she asked. “That’s the one thing a turnskin has to keep secret, because we need to find and wear our own clothes to turn human again.”
Bisclavret’s wife smiled and said she understood. And they seemed to live happily ever after, for a few more weeks.
But she didn’t like her husband having even one secret, so when he left the castle the next month, she followed him. He wasn’t hard to follow in his bright red cloak.
She followed him from the castle to the edge of the forest, and through the forest to a small clearing. She hid behind a bush and watched as he took off his red cloak, his white shirt, his long brown leather boots and his grey breeches. She watched as he folded his clothes, then lifted a stone and hid the clothes in a hole underneath.
Then she watched as he changed. He crouched to the ground, and his spine arched. His arms stretched and his legs shrank to become four limbs the same length. His fingers clenched into paws and his nails curved into claws. His nose and chin melted together, then jutted out into a long snout with yellow fangs.
She watched as his skin rippled then turned, so he was covered in dark grey fur.
She watched as he became a wolf.
Then she watched as the wolf lifted his snout, sniffed the air, and slowly turned his head towards the bush she was hiding behind.
She felt her own skin ripple, a tiny cold shiver of fear across her neck and shoulders. Then the wolf turned away and trotted off into the forest.
The new wife couldn’t move. She had understood the idea of her husband becoming a wolf, when they’d talked. But she’d not expected the reality of watching her handsome husband become a beast, and of fearing that the beast would attack her.
She didn’t want to be married to him any more. She couldn’t have a happy ever after with an animal. She never wanted to see him again.
So she stood up, she walked to the stone, she kicked it over, she picked up the clothes and she walked away.
Carrying the red cloak wrapped around the rest of the clothes, she walked through the forest towards the castle, up the wide steps and through the arched doorway. She washed the clothes and dried them. She hung the cloak behind the door. She folded the shirt and breeches, and put them in a drawer. She polished the boots.
Then she took control of the castle, just as she had every time her husband was absent. But this time, she had a plan.
She ordered the men to cut down the trees for quarter of a mile round the castle, so the land was bare and anything crossing the land could be easily seen. She gave each man a bow and a quiver full of arrows, then sent them to the top of the towers and battlements, and ordered them to shoot any animal that left the forest.
Then she relaxed, sure she would never see Lord Bisclavret again, as a wolf or a man.
In the forest, the turnskin spent three days as a wolf, hunting and running and sleeping under the trees. Then when his skin itched and he knew it was time to turn back to a man, he returned to the clearing. But the stone was on its side, the hole was empty and his clothes were gone.
Bisclavret knew that to become a man again, he must find clothes. He had plenty of clothes in his castle, so he went towards the edge of the forest, which was much nearer than he expected. He stepped out into the bare land between the trees and the castle, and suddenly – THUMP – an arrow hit the earth beside him.
He ran back into the forest, turned to look at the castle and saw men, his own men, aiming arrows at him.
So he waited until night, and tried again. But the guards had put burning torches into the ground round the castle, and though the wolf
got a little nearer, the arrows still flew out of the dark at him, and he had to run back to the safety of the trees.
Bisclavret realised he couldn’t reach the castle and find his own clothes. So he ran in the other direction, until he found a woodsman’s cottage on the other side of the forest. He stole a shirt from the washing line and struggled his front legs into the sleeves. But he didn’t turn into a man, because these weren’t his own clothes and they had no power to turn him back.
The turnskin gave up.
He stayed a wolf, because he had no choice, and anyway he enjoyed being a wolf. He enjoyed the chase when he hunted deer, he enjoyed the hot bloody meat, he enjoyed the strength and speed of his muscles, he enjoyed the weight and warmth of his soft fur, and he enjoyed the world of scents around him.
But after weeks of living as a lone wolf, he began to miss the things that made him a man. He missed bread and cheese and baths. He missed music and stories and friendship. He missed his wife and his happy ever after.
So he tried to reach his own clothes again. But the land around the castle was still bare (“who ordered the trees cut down?” he wondered). The archers were still on the battlements (“who put them there?” he wondered). And there was still no way to get to his own clothes (“who took my clothes from the forest?” he wondered).
As he prowled alone through the forest, he heard a horn. A shrill hunting horn, echoing through the trees. All wild animals are afraid of the hunt, but the turnskin ran towards the sound of the horn, towards the baying dogs, drumming hooves and shouting men.
Then he leapt out, right in front of the hunt.
The lead huntsman called, “Halloo! A wolf! A wolfskin cloak for the man who brings it down!”
So the wolf ran.
But not at top speed. He ran just fast enough to keep ahead of the dogs, the horses, and the huntsmen’s spears. He ran through the trees, but not into the darkest and thickest parts of the forest. He let the hunt keep him in sight.
He led the hunt right to the edge of the forest.
Then the wolf ran out across the bare land. The archers on the castle walls raised their bows and aimed their arrows.
The hunt crashed out of the trees and the lead huntsman yelled, “NO! Don’t shoot! The wolf is ours. Don’t shoot our prey.”
The archers lowered their bows and watched the chase. They watched the wolf dash across the cleared land, followed by the dogs, the horses and the men with spears.
Now the wolf was running as fast as possible. He sprinted towards the castle with the dogs at his heels.
Chased by the hunt, and protected by the hunt.
At the bottom of the steps, where a wild animal would turn and face its foe, the wolf ran up the steps like a man late for a feast. He pushed through the arched wooden doors and into the castle.
The wolf slid and clattered on the stone floor. He saw his cloaks, hanging behind the door. Including his red cloak, which he’d hidden in the forest.
Then he heard a gasp, and turned round to see his wife, her face pale and her hands trembling.
Suddenly Bisclavret knew who had taken his clothes, who had cleared the land and who had ordered the archers to shoot him.
He leapt up at his wife, snarling.
He snapped his teeth, just grazing the very tip of her nose.
Then he heard the huntsmen running up the steps. He turned his back on his wife and used his teeth to haul down the cloak.
The huntsmen shoved the door wide open. And they saw...
...the Lord, Bisclavret, tall and dark and handsome, wrapped from throat to heels in a rich red cloak.
“What are you doing, barging into my castle?”
“Sorry sire. We thought we saw a wolf run in here.”
“A wolf? In a castle? Don’t be ridiculous.”
The hunters apologised, left the castle and headed back to the forest, to find easier prey.
Bisclavret turned, to ask his new wife why she had betrayed him, what had happened to her promise to love him whatever his secret, and whether they could still find their happy ever after together.
But she had gone.
He searched the house for her, until finally, glancing out of a window, he saw her. Running across the bare land towards the edge of the forest.
He didn’t chase her. He let her go.
And so, once upon a time, a girl who had been bitten by a werewolf ran into the forest... which might be the start of a new story.
The Swallow’s Search
Egyptian myth
A family full of gods is not always a happy family.
The Egyptian god Set was jealous of his older brother Osiris, because Osiris was loved by the people, and because Osiris had a beautiful and powerful wife Isis.
So Set came up with a plan to get rid of Osiris. He invited Osiris and all his men to a party at his riverside palace, and provided a wonderful feast with lots of bread and beer.
At the end of the meal, when everyone was full and happy, Set announced that he had a splendid gift for one of his guests, but he didn’t yet know who it was for.
He brought out a gorgeous wooden chest, carved and fragranced and inlaid with gems, and said it was a gift for the person who fitted most neatly inside.
All his guests tried. But everyone was too fat or too thin, or too short or too tall.
Everyone apart from Osiris.
Osiris fitted perfectly. His shoulders spanned the width of the chest, his feet touched the base and his hair just brushed the top.
It was as if the box had been carved specially for him.
Osiris lay comfortably in the box and laughed. “It seems this pretty box is mine, Set.”
Set laughed too. “Yes, brother, it is your box. It is your coffin!”
Set slammed the lid down, nailed it shut and, before Osiris’s men could react, Set shoved the chest into the River Nile. As it floated away into the darkness, Set knew he had finally got rid of Osiris.
Isis soon heard of Set’s trick.
First the goddess placed her young son and heir, Horus, on an island. To keep the boy hidden from Set, she cut the island loose from the riverbed and sent it floating across the waters, so it was never in the same place twice.
Then Isis began to search for her husband.
She spread her arms, whispered her secret name and became a bird. She became a swallow.
She flew high above the Nile, searching for her beloved Osiris. At first she was searching for him to rescue him, to free him from that beautiful box and let him breathe fresh air again.
After many days of searching, she knew Osiris couldn’t have survived so long without food or water or air. Now Isis was searching for his body, to perform the rites that would free his spirit.
She searched and searched, flying along the length of the Nile, across the vast width of its mouth, even out over the salty sea beyond. But she didn’t see the glittering box anywhere. Because the box wasn’t on the river.
On the very first day, the box had been swept up against the riverbank where it banged into a tamarind tree. The tree, enchanted by the beauty of the box, had wrapped itself round Osiris’s coffin and engulfed the box in its broad trunk.
The box and the body were hidden inside the tree.
Then the tree was chopped down, carried to a local king’s palace and turned into a pillar to hold up the roof.
So, no matter how fast and far she flew, Isis would never find the box on the river.
Then she heard rumours, as birds do, about a marvellous new pillar, of thrumming power and amazing beauty, so she flew to the King’s palace to see this pillar. She transformed back into the shape of a woman, and offered her services to the Queen as the baby Prince’s nurse.
As Isis cared for the boy, and became fond of him, she wondered why she was so drawn to the wooden pillar.
One night, the Queen heard odd noises from the baby’s room. She pushed the door open to see...
...her baby boy burning in the centre of a fire!
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Her child was lying in the middle of blazing flames. His nurse was nowhere to be seen. There was a swallow swooping around the pillar in the centre of the room.
The Queen screamed and rushed forward to pull her son from the flames. She burnt her hands pulling him out.
But the baby was smiling and unharmed.
The swallow hovered in midair, then grew and stretched and became the boy’s nurse.
“Foolish woman,” said the nurse to the Queen. “I was burning the mortality off your son; I was turning him into a god. You have broken the spell. He will never be a god now.”
The Queen sobbed and the baby giggled.
“However, I will bless him before I leave,” said Isis, “if you will have your servants cut this pillar open, because I believe there is something precious inside.”
The baby received one last hug from his nurse, as the pillar was sawn open and the beautiful chest fell out.
Isis arranged a barge to carry the box and the body towards the island where their son Horus waited. But on the journey home, while she slept one night, Set passed by on the riverbank and caught sight of the box glinting in the moonlight.
He didn’t want Osiris’s powerful spirit to rise free, so he crept onto the barge, opened the box and chopped the body into fourteen pieces. Then he scattered those fourteen pieces over the river and the desert beyond.
When Isis woke and found the box broken open and empty, she transformed into a bird again to search for all the pieces of Osiris. She flew over every inch of Egypt and found thirteen of the fourteen pieces. When she finally realised that the fourteenth piece was lost for ever, she filled the gap with gold and made Osiris whole.
She bound all the pieces of her husband together with linen strips and she spoke the rites. As she whispered goodbye to Osiris, his spirit floated free, down to the Duat where all the spirits go.
In the Duat, Osiris ruled as King of the Dead, while Set ruled above, until Isis and Osiris’s son Horus was grown and could defeat Set, to restore balance to the world.
Set was defeated thousands of years ago, but even now, Isis occasionally turns into a bird and flies high and far over Egypt, hoping to find that very last piece of Osiris.