Serpents and Werewolves

by Lari Don

  The hare reached the riverbank, then changed, fast as a heartbeat, into a silver salmon and leapt into the narrow river.

  The salmon swam away.

  The hound splashed into the river and changed into an otter.

  The salmon’s tail was powerful and its silver scales sped through the water, but the otter was bigger and started to catch up. The otter’s sharp teeth reached for the salmon’s tail.

  The salmon leapt out of the water and changed, fast as a heartbeat, into a swift. The tiny bird flew up and away.

  But the otter scrambled out of the river and changed into a falcon. The falcon flew high above the swift and hovered, then dived, hooked beak and talons ready to tear into the bird’s neck and wings.

  The swift changed, fast as a heartbeat, into a grain of wheat. The grain fell into a farmyard and lay hidden amongst all the other grains of wheat.

  The falcon swooped down and changed into a white hen. The hen began to peck and swallow all the grains of wheat she could see.

  The hen ate the grain that was Gwion. Then the hen became a woman again.

  Ceridwen laughed. “That will teach you to steal my magic, my son’s future and wisdom you had no right to. That will be the end of you, Gwion.” And she returned to the useless potion and her crooked son.

  But it wasn’t the end of Gwion. Because it was soon clear to Ceridwen that she was carrying another child in her belly, a child with a fast strong heartbeat.

  Nine months later, she gave birth to a baby boy, with the light of wisdom still shining in his eyes, and she knew this was Gwion.

  She lifted the baby high above her head, intending to throw him to the ground and take her revenge properly this time.

  But she couldn’t. She’d carried this baby for nine months, just as she’d carried her beloved Afagddu, and she couldn’t hurt him.

  However her anger at Afagddu’s loss meant she couldn’t love this new baby. So she wrapped the tiny baby in a blanket, laid him gently in a coracle and pushed the small boat into the river. The boat was found by a fisherman, who brought the beautiful shining boy up as his own, calling him Taliesin.

  Taliesin became a famous wise man, a bard and a wizard, respected at all the courts of Europe. Many years later, Taliesin taught all his wisdom to a young magician called Merlin.

  Afagddu became a respected healer, using the wisdom he had learnt when he followed his mother as she gathered herbs.

  Because there is more than one way to gain wisdom.

  The Gold Sea

  Canadian tribal tale

  The people of the tribes did not know greed. They knew that wealth was only valuable when it was shared among neighbours.

  Then a few local men went to work in the gold mines, learning the greed and speed of the white man’s gold rush. When one of the men returned to his village on the bay, he brought greed back with him.

  He brought a bag of gold dust and gold nuggets. He kept the gold to himself. He didn’t spend the gold on gifts to give his family. He didn’t spend the gold on a feast to feed his neighbours. He boasted of the gold, and slept with it every night, curled round it, letting the cold of the gold reach his heart.

  Then one night, as he curled up round the cold gold, he became a serpent. A huge curled serpent, with cold black scales.

  The elders said to him, “If you want to become a man again, let go of the gold.”

  But he hissed at them and wouldn’t let go of the gold.

  The serpent grew bigger and scalier, and soon he couldn’t fit in the house or the village. Soon he was so big and so scaly that he had to slither into the bay.

  The serpent lay in the water, curled up round his gold, blocking the entrance to the bay. The people couldn’t row their boats out to sea, to fish or to trade.

  The elders asked him once more to let go of his gold and come back to his people.

  He hissed again, a huge hiss which rocked the sea into tall waves, and he stayed curled up round his gold.

  The elders decided that to save the village and release the man from his greed, someone would have to kill the serpent.

  But who would do this sad and difficult task?

  The people chose the best young man in the village. A careful, polite young man, who shared his fish and furs, and helped his mother keep their house clean.

  The young man sharpened his knife, washed himself thoroughly, walked to the clifftop in the first light of dawn, stripped off his clothes and dived into the sea.

  He swam up to the serpent and tried to stab his knife into the serpent’s flesh. But the serpent’s scales were as hard as the rock in a goldmine and the knife just slid off.

  All day he swam up and down and round the serpent’s body looking for a way between the scales. But there was no gap.

  At sunset, he realised he didn’t have the energy to swim and search and stab all night. So as the dying sunlight hit the water, flat and bright from the edge of the sky, the young man shouted to the serpent, “Look, more gold, shining on the tips of the waves!”

  The serpent lifted his head to see the sunlight glinting on the waves, to search for more gold to curl up around.

  When the serpent moved his head, the young man saw a soft place at his throat, dived towards it and stabbed his knife in.

  The serpent died with gold sunlight in his eyes. His body shrank back to the size of a man and floated away on the shining water.

  So the young man opened up the bay for boats and released the serpent from his greed. Then the young man swam home, leaving the serpent’s gold lying at the bottom of the sea.

  The Swan Brothers

  Norwegian folktale

  Once there was a duchess who made a very silly wish.

  She had twelve sons, all healthy and handsome and happy. But the duchess wasn’t happy. She wanted a daughter. She wanted a little girl, to dress in silks and ribbons, and to bring up as a proper little lady.

  One day, the duchess was riding through the forest on her white horse, and she saw a woodcutter’s wife gathering sticks, surrounded by a giggling group of pink-cheeked daughters.

  As the duchess rode on, she sighed. “I wish I had a little girl. I’d give anything, if only I could have a daughter of my own.”

  Suddenly a little old lady stood on the path in front of her. “That’s a very silly wish. You would actually give anything to have a daughter?”

  “Oh yes! A perfect little girl, with blonde curls and blue eyes and a sweet smile. That’s all I want.”

  “You have twelve little boys. Aren’t they enough?”

  “They’re almost too much! They’re muddy and loud and I can’t plait their hair with ribbons. I’d rather have a little girl. I really do wish for a little girl. You’re a wrinkly old crone, in a forest. Can you grant wishes?”

  “I can. But you might not like it if I do.”

  “Oh please, grant me this one wish. I’d give anything..s.”

  “You just have,” said the old lady. She turned away to walk into the trees, then she turned back. “But if your perfect little girl ever wants to undo your silly wish, send her to me.”

  The duchess went home, a bit puzzled, but very happy. Nine months later, she gave birth to a perfect baby girl.

  The moment the baby was born, the duchess’s twelve sons turned into swans and flew away.

  The duchess missed her sons, their noise and mud and games, every day. But she did love her little girl.

  As the little girl grew up, she heard rumours from the servants about the twelve boys who had lived in the castle before her, but she never heard the whole story.

  When she was fifteen years old, she asked her mother, “Is it true I had twelve brothers, and they were enchanted to become swans the day I was born?”

  “Yes, it is, my dear. But don’t worry about it. Let me put this velvet ribbon in your hair...”

  “I don’t want another ribbon. I want you to tell me what happened.”

  Her mother told her, though she carefully didn’t r
epeat every word the old lady had spoken.

  The girl, the sister of those lost brothers, said, “You gave away so many children, just to gain one!”

  “But I gained you, my darling. And I wouldn’t change that back for the world.”

  “I would! I can’t bear to think of my brothers, trapped in birds’ bodies, out in all weather, not able to speak or ask for help. I am their sister. I must be able to help them.” She held both her mother’s hands and looked into her mother’s eyes. “What exactly did the old lady say?”

  And the duchess, who couldn’t refuse her pretty daughter anything, told her exactly what the old lady had said.

  So that night, the sister took off her fine clothes and ribbons, put on a plain dress and sensible boots, and went into the forest.

  Now the duchess had lost all her children.

  The sister walked for many days, until she found a cottage with a wrinkled old lady inside. She knocked on the door and asked, “Did you grant a wish for a perfect little girl, to a mother who should have known better?”

  “I did. Was she happy with you?”

  “Yes, but I doubt my brothers are happy. Can I set them free?”

  “Of course. With your bare hands, you must harvest enough nettles to spin and weave and sew twelve shirts for your twelve brothers. When the shirts are ready, the swans will appear, put on the nettle shirts and change back to boys and men. But while you harvest, spin, weave and sew, you must not speak. You must stay silent, not utter one word, whatever happens.”

  The girl thanked her, went deeper into the forest and began to collect nettles.

  She thought the worst thing about her task would be the stinging of the nettles, but it wasn’t the worst thing. She couldn’t sing as she worked. She couldn’t mutter rude words when the leaves stung. She couldn’t chat to the birds or butterflies. She had to keep her tongue still and her lips closed. And that was difficult.

  For weeks and months, she picked the nettles and stripped the leaves off the stems. Then she spun the sharp fibres into thread and wove the thread into prickly cloth. Finally she started to make shirts.

  As she sewed the first shirt, a young king rode by on a hunting expedition.

  The King saw the girl, as perfect as her mother had wished for, golden-curled and blue-eyed, sewing quietly under the trees.

  He fell in love. Just like that.

  He asked her name.

  She shook her head.

  He asked if he could help with her task.

  She shook her head.

  He asked if she would join him in the hunt.

  She shook her head.

  So he sat down beside her and talked. He told her his name, where he lived, how many little brothers and sisters he had, and what his horse’s name was. She smiled and he laughed and she smiled again. But she didn’t say a word to him. That was the hardest thing so far. (But not the hardest thing of all. That was still to come.)

  He asked her to marry him.

  She nodded her head.

  So the young king took the beautiful girl, and her spools of thread, her pile of cloth and the very first nettle shirt, back to his palace.

  They were married and she continued her task in the bright rooms of the tower. She was happy, though she couldn’t say it out loud.

  But the King’s mother wasn’t happy. The old Queen wanted to keep the keys of the kingdom in her own hands, she didn’t want to share power, or her son’s love, with anyone else.

  She kept whispering to her son, “That new wife of yours isn’t quite right. She doesn’t talk. She insists on weaving and sewing those odd prickly shirts. It’s not normal. It’s uncanny.”

  But the young King loved his new Queen and he stopped listening to his mother.

  So when the new Queen had a baby after a year of marriage, the old Queen crept into the tower late at night, stole the child, cut her own thumb and dribbled her own blood onto the new Queen’s lips. Then she went into the forest and threw the baby into a pit of snakes and toads.

  The next day she called to her son, “It’s an outrage! Your creepy silent wife has eaten her own baby! She must be a witch!”

  The young King touched the blood on the lips of his new Queen. “Is this true, my love? Is this true? Please speak up in your own defence!”

  But she couldn’t. She stayed silent and sewed the collar onto the eleventh shirt.

  The young King, grieving for his child and goaded by his mother, declared the new Queen a witch and sentenced her to be burnt to death at dawn the next day.

  That night was the hardest night. Accused of a horrible crime, worried about her stolen baby, unable to speak to her beloved husband. So the girl did the only thing she could do. She tried to finish all the nettle shirts before dawn, hoping that as she burnt, her brothers would be safe.

  But she failed. She didn’t finish the shirts. When the sun rose and the guards came to take the girl outside, the last shirt only had one sleeve.

  As the guards led her to the pile of branches in the centre of the courtyard, the girl laid the shirts on the ground, one at each step, smoothed flat on the stones of the palace courtyard. But the twelfth shirt only had one sleeve.

  Then she stepped up to the pyre, and let the guards tie her to the stake. She still didn’t speak a word.

  She looked at the old Queen smiling and the young King weeping.

  And she heard the sound of...

  ...wings beating.

  As the guards lit the fire, she saw twelve beautiful white swans fly over the palace and land in the courtyard. As the flames warmed her feet and the smoke filled her silent throat, she saw the swans pick up the shirts and pull them over their feathery backs.

  The swans grew tall and straight, the white feathers became black and brown and ginger and golden hair, and the pairs of wings became pairs of arms. But the last shirt only had one sleeve, so the last swan turned into a boy with one arm and one white wing.

  Her twelve brothers stood in front of her, as the flames grew higher and hotter, and they shouted, “You can speak now, sister!”

  So she called to her husband, “I didn’t kill our baby, your mother stole our baby. The blood on my lips was hers.”

  The King looked at his mother and saw the truth in her face.

  He dived forward and pulled his wife from the fire. Then he demanded that his mother take them to their stolen baby.

  They found the baby in a pit in the forest, giggling and playing with the snakes and the toads. But when the old Queen was thrown into the pit, the snakes didn’t play with her.

  The twelve brothers, their sister and her new family all lived happily ever after (or as happily as any group of people ever can.)

  But no matter how many nettles she spun and weaved and sewed into sleeves, the sister could never give her twelfth brother back his left arm. His one white wing was a reminder that, long ago, their mother had made a very silly wish.

  The Wolf Arrow

  Dutch folktale

  The soldier had fought his last battle for the King’s army. He was returning home to his father’s farm, where he hoped to settle to a more peaceful life.

  He was an archer, skilled and strong. He still carried his bow, but the quiver on his back only held one arrow, a souvenir of the life he was leaving behind. It was fletched with his favourite feathers, silvery grey feathers that made the arrow fly true.

  He was nearing his home, walking softly along the country lane, when he heard singing. Not the loud chanting of an army singing to terrify the enemy or to cover up the fear in their own hearts, but a cheerful melody in a light high voice, singing a counting song about flowers.

  He looked over the wall into the nearest field and saw a little girl sitting in the middle of a meadow, her head bent over a daisy chain as she sang her song.

  The archer smiled. A world which contained daisies and singing children: this was why he was coming home.

  Then he saw a dark shadow creeping through the grass and flowers. A low, lo
ng, hairy shadow, creeping towards the girl.

  A wolf!

  The wolf leapt.

  The archer pulled his last arrow from his quiver, nocked it onto the string of his bow, drew the string back and released the arrow. He didn’t pause to aim, because he knew his arrow would follow his eye.

  As the arrow left the bow, the wolf was still leaping high in the air, aiming for the girl’s neck.

  The arrow struck the wolf in the shoulder. The wolf fell out of the air, howling in pain, and rolled over in the grass.

  The archer jumped over the wall. The wolf ran off, limping.

  The archer had no more arrows.

  And the girl was screaming in shock. So he picked her up, carried her to the farmhouse at the end of the meadow and put her in the arms of her mother.

  Then he continued on his way home.

  His family were delighted to see him. They prepared a feast to celebrate his return. “There haven’t been so many lambs recently,” said his father, as they prepared the meat for roasting, “because we’ve been troubled by wolf attacks. There’s one beast that takes children, if they stray too far from home.”

  The archer mentioned, quietly, the wolf he had shot. His father patted his shoulder and said, “Yet another reason to celebrate.”

  The archer’s mother invited all the neighbours, including the little girl’s family, to the homecoming feast. Everyone in the district came, all but their next door neighbour, from the farm down the track.

  “Where’s our next door neighbour?” the archer’s mother wondered. “He normally has a great appetite for other people’s food!” Everyone laughed and waited for the neighbour to turn up.

  But he never arrived, not when the smell of perfectly roasted meat wafted across the fields, not when the flames of the bonfire rose high in the sky, not when the singing got a bit too loud.

  The archer and his father decided to check if their neighbour was alright. “It’s not like him to miss a feast,” said the archer’s father, as they crossed the fields.