I’m in the process of writing a little fairy tale and I think its kind of alright so I thought I’d share it with you.
I’m not done and this is only about half of it so far but if you would like to see the rest then let me know and I’ll do part two and maybe a part three if I end up finishing (no promises!).
Once upon a time in a kingdom far, far away where sunflowers bloomed and the world was filled with light, there lived a carpenter. The carpenter lived with his wife in a cottage deep into the forest. Every day when the rooster crowed, he would awaken from his slumber and walk the long track through the forest to the village where he owned a furniture shop. He would work hard all day, chopping wood and carving furniture until the sun sunk back into the earth. While the carpenter was at work, his wife would knead bread for their dinner and wash clothes for the rich who lived in the castle. She would deliver the washed clothes to the royals who in return gave her sugar and flour. The carpenter and his wife came to a decision one evening by the fireplace, they were to try for a baby. They tried and tried and tried for many days and nights but no baby was delivered to them. The wife fell into a deep sadness, guilt for not being able to conceive a baby overcoming her. But the carpenter kept his head high.
‘We shall never give up,’ he would tell her. ‘For I know that our family will continue on for many generations.’
The wife, however, was not as optimisitc. One day when the carpenter was at work, the wife set out in search of an old witch that had been spoken of in the village. She came across a cottage with smoke billowing from the chimney, nestled next to a river. The carpenter’s wife rapped on the door and it swung open with an eerie creak. Sitting in the middle of the room in a rocking chair was an old hag. Stringy grey hair hung limply around her face, her back was hunched underneath a filthy black robe and her skin was pale and cracked. But her eyes was what most astounded the wife. The witch’s lids were hooded and sagging. Her eyelashes were thin and dirty. And they were white. She had no colour or pupil. Just a deep milky white. The hag stood, clutching a walking stick and stumbling to the doorway where the wife was cowering.
‘What is it you seek?’ questioned the witch with a deep scratchy voice.
‘A…a baby,’ she stammered in reply.
The witch nodded, motioning for the wife to follow. She led her through a door and into a darkened room. Blood red curtains hung across the panes and the air was filled with dust. The hag grasped a white sheet spread over something and she pulled it away with a cloud of dust to reveal an empty cauldron and a table with a thick book laid on it. She flicked through the book with long thin fingers to rest on a page where a picture of a rose was printed among a wad of text.
‘You wish to have a baby…’
‘Do not interrupt me!’ the hag roared.
The wife whimpered, falling into silence. The witch went back to the book, mumbling and muttering to herself. Finally, she looked up, her milky eyes studying the air in front of her blankly.
‘If you want this baby of yours, you must repay me. I will grant you with a bouncing baby girl if you, in return, give me what I have lost.’
‘And what may that be?’ asked the wife.
‘Why, my sight of course.’
The witch broke out in a wide grin. Her rotting yellow teeth were crooked and her cheeks wrinkled even more. The wife paused, uncertain of the witch’s ability. But then an image of a young girl giggling in her arms appeared in her head and she was overwhelmed with hope.
‘What must I do?’
Suddenly the room burst into light. The wife looked around and saw that all around them candles had been lit. The cauldron was now bubbling with hot water, steam rising out of the mouth. The witch began to chant.
‘A baby which they seek,
For her will is weak.
But I shall grant them this only once,
And do not mistake me for a dunce.
You just watch.
Hair of butterscotch,
Cheeks of rose,
Everything that you did propose.
Eyes like sky,
Sweet as pie.
Wait a little while.
Now they must give me what I’ve lost,
And pay the cost.
I want eyes of emerald from a maiden,
And you better trade in,
By the fourteenth year of the girls birth,
Or I’ll take what’s worth.
Maybe yours instead,
Then five days later you’ll be dead.
But if you are found to be guilty,
Do not come to me.
You will be beheaded on the spot,
And your daughter will rot.
She will start to fade away,
And by the end of the day,
All that will be left is her memory,
And your husband alone in treachery.
It will be all you to blame,
And you should go to shame.
But of course you will,
Because you will have been killed!’
The witch cackled and slammed the book shut. Then she began dropping items one by one into the cauldron.
‘First,’ she started listing, ‘a silver coin dropped from the hand of a gypsy. Second, a teaspoon of honey stolen from the shop of a poor baker. Third, four petals from a rose in a cave by the ocean. Fourth, a breath from the cloud furthest in the east sky. Fifth, the tooth of a sick baby. Sixth, the last clover left in the field. Seventh, fourteen pumpkin seeds from a witch with one tooth. And eighth, a drop of blood from the maiden to be carrying the child.’
She brandished an iron dagger, gesturing for the wife to put out her arm. Uncertainly, the wife did so and the witch pulled up the sleeve of the wife’s dress and slowly and carefully sliced into her forearm. A drop of scarlet blood traveled down her arm to her elbow and dropped in to the glittering concoction. The cauldron began spurting out sparks and clouds of smoke coloured red, orange, blue and green. With her wrinkled hand, the witch grabbed a glass bottle sitting on the table and dipped it into the cauldron. She handed the wife the bottle.
The carpenter’s wife lifted it to her lips and a scent of ocean and rainforests wafted up to her nose. She closed her eyes and tipped the contents of the bottle into her mouth. A burning sensation overwhelmed her as the potion traveled through her body. The wife called out and fell to the ground, clutching her stomach. Then, all of a sudden, the pain stopped and she looked up to see that she was now crouching on the forest floor with the river flowing next to her and the glass bottle shimmering in her hand. The witch was nowhere to be seen. She jumped up and began running back through the forest. When she arrived home the carpenter was already approaching the house.
‘My love!’ she called out, galloping up to him and engulfing him in a hug, ‘I am with child!’
The carpenter beamed with happiness and he picked up his wife and hugged her.
‘We will be a family!’ he yelled.
I know the rhyme is really bad – it’s going to be changed but i’m still brainstorming. I also don’t have a name for it yet, leave one in the comments if you have any ideas!