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Everyone knows that mysterious old ladies are kind of a big deal.
Yes, anyone who is female (or wraps up in sufficiently mysterious shawls) and old enough could pretend to be a mysterious old lady, but the actual category of the creatures is a different matter, and one can often tell (though it's better to be on the safe side, when identifying them).
Mysterious old ladies can, in a certain sense, do magic - or help you do magic. Sure, if you decide to take the first milking of your new cow and leave it out in a bowl in the backyard with a garland of roses floating on the surface and then drink it all first thing in the morning without stopping to put on your shoes or comb your hair, nothing will happen. But if you do it because a mysterious old lady told you to, and it was a real mysterious old lady, and you followed all of her instructions? Then you will find that you will get whatever result she advertised.
But if you step into your slippers first or tug a knot out of your ponytail or drink the milk early or late or use daisies for the garland, you will get something else.
It's very important to be exact and careful about these things.
Compared to what happens if you disobey a real mysterious old lady, being occasionally made a fool of by some pretender to the title because your eyesight is going or you were too sleepy to note her lack of a proper mysterious aura is nothing.
spell_eternity
Queen Joralina of Mahlirou knows, in a general sort of way, about mysterious old women.
So when she goes out for a quiet walk in the forest behind her castle early one morning, thinking about her troubles, she is not very surprised to find a round and shawl-wrapped figure approaching her on the path.
"My dear, why are you so sad?" asks the mysterious old woman.
If the queen of Mahlirou were more observant, she might notice that the early-morning mist swirls at the edges of the old woman's shawls a little too long after she moves, or that her gnarled old walking-stick leaves no dents in the grass when she lifts it, or that the moonlight shines silver on her thin white hair though she stands in the shadow of a tree. But although the queen is not nearly that observant, she does sense a general mysteriousness about the situation.
"Oh—I suppose—it's only I have no children," murmurs the queen. "And a queen ought to have children. It's important."
"Perhaps," says the mysterious old woman noncommittally. "Would you like my advice?"
"Yes, please," says the queen.
"Then listen closely and do just as I say," the old woman instructs. "This evening, take a bowl and place it upside-down in your garden; leave it there all night. In the morning when the sun has risen, you will find two roses beneath it, a red and a white. If you eat the red rose, you shall give birth to a son; if you eat the white rose, you shall give birth to a daughter. Take care particularly to remember that you must not eat both."
"Not both?" questions the queen.
"No," says the mysterious old woman, very firmly.
"...very well," says the queen. "I will do as you suggest."
"I wish you much happiness with your new child," says the mysterious old woman. "As much as you may find. Goodbye."
And she turns away and walks into the forest, and the queen returns to her castle, repeating the instructions to herself. Leave a bowl upside-down in the garden tonight; return in the morning to find two roses; eat just one of the roses, red for a boy and white for a girl. Simple enough. But which does she choose?
It should be a son, for the succession; she's sure that is what her husband would say. But Queen Joralina thinks she might prefer a daughter, for herself. A lovely little girl.
She says nothing of her encounter in the forest all day. That night she leaves a bowl overturned in the garden, and in the morning she goes out early again and looks under it, and there are two perfectly lovely roses, flower-heads with only a tiny bit of stem attached. She picks them up and puts them in the bowl and takes the whole business inside to sit and think.
Boy, or girl? Girl, or boy? She sits indecisively for so long that she fears the magic may have gone out of the roses, but they sit in their bowl just as soft-petaled and beautiful as they were when she picked them up. Finally she closes her eyes and spins the bowl around and picks up the first rose to come into her hand and puts it in her mouth. It tastes sweet and is not at all as uncomfortable as she expected eating a rose to be. She opens her eyes to look and see which rose she ate.
It was the white one; the red rose remains in the bowl. But in her haste to pick it up, she discovers, she tore a petal from the red rose. Half a red petal is stuck to her finger. The other half, she presumably ate.
She peels the petal off her finger. The first rose was so very sweet - and if her husband knew, he would surely be angry that she chose the wrong child - and she has eaten half a petal of the red rose already, so perhaps she has already spoiled the thing and might as well - she picks up the red rose and eats it too.
Not long afterward, the queen falls pregnant. Her husband rejoices. She says nothing of the old woman or the roses. She convinces herself that she dreamed it all, or that she followed the instructions correctly, or that surely nothing that bad could happen.
Although her husband is very interested in the existence of their future child, he is rather less interested in the process. He finds an excuse to be out of the capital on kingly business around the time the baby is expected. The midwife tells the queen she's big enough for twins, and the queen thinks, perhaps I will have a boy and a girl, sweet and beautiful like my imaginary roses—
It is not to be.
She has a boy and a lindworm.
The lindworm comes out first, long and coily and covered in tiny green scales, with two skinny arms and a toothless dragon's head. The queen shrieks. The midwife, although unprepared for this eventuality, attempts to wrap the flailing lizard in a blanket on general principle; it hits her in the face with its tail and escapes out the window, and she is only just in time to catch the Queen's second child in a blanket that now smells faintly of lizard. Without a word passing between them, the Queen and her midwife agree that neither will speak of this incident ever again.
The new prince is named Taphinieu. The king and queen celebrate his birth with a huge feast, and do the same for his first birthday a year later. The Queen tries harder to convince herself that she dreamed both the roses and the ensuing lizard. She is moderately successful; and after the prince's first birthday, she has entirely different problems.
So when she goes out for a quiet walk in the forest behind her castle early one morning, thinking about her troubles, she is not very surprised to find a round and shawl-wrapped figure approaching her on the path.
"My dear, why are you so sad?" asks the mysterious old woman.
If the queen of Mahlirou were more observant, she might notice that the early-morning mist swirls at the edges of the old woman's shawls a little too long after she moves, or that her gnarled old walking-stick leaves no dents in the grass when she lifts it, or that the moonlight shines silver on her thin white hair though she stands in the shadow of a tree. But although the queen is not nearly that observant, she does sense a general mysteriousness about the situation.
"Oh—I suppose—it's only I have no children," murmurs the queen. "And a queen ought to have children. It's important."
"Perhaps," says the mysterious old woman noncommittally. "Would you like my advice?"
"Yes, please," says the queen.
"Then listen closely and do just as I say," the old woman instructs. "This evening, take a bowl and place it upside-down in your garden; leave it there all night. In the morning when the sun has risen, you will find two roses beneath it, a red and a white. If you eat the red rose, you shall give birth to a son; if you eat the white rose, you shall give birth to a daughter. Take care particularly to remember that you must not eat both."
"Not both?" questions the queen.
"No," says the mysterious old woman, very firmly.
"...very well," says the queen. "I will do as you suggest."
"I wish you much happiness with your new child," says the mysterious old woman. "As much as you may find. Goodbye."
And she turns away and walks into the forest, and the queen returns to her castle, repeating the instructions to herself. Leave a bowl upside-down in the garden tonight; return in the morning to find two roses; eat just one of the roses, red for a boy and white for a girl. Simple enough. But which does she choose?
It should be a son, for the succession; she's sure that is what her husband would say. But Queen Joralina thinks she might prefer a daughter, for herself. A lovely little girl.
She says nothing of her encounter in the forest all day. That night she leaves a bowl overturned in the garden, and in the morning she goes out early again and looks under it, and there are two perfectly lovely roses, flower-heads with only a tiny bit of stem attached. She picks them up and puts them in the bowl and takes the whole business inside to sit and think.
Boy, or girl? Girl, or boy? She sits indecisively for so long that she fears the magic may have gone out of the roses, but they sit in their bowl just as soft-petaled and beautiful as they were when she picked them up. Finally she closes her eyes and spins the bowl around and picks up the first rose to come into her hand and puts it in her mouth. It tastes sweet and is not at all as uncomfortable as she expected eating a rose to be. She opens her eyes to look and see which rose she ate.
It was the white one; the red rose remains in the bowl. But in her haste to pick it up, she discovers, she tore a petal from the red rose. Half a red petal is stuck to her finger. The other half, she presumably ate.
She peels the petal off her finger. The first rose was so very sweet - and if her husband knew, he would surely be angry that she chose the wrong child - and she has eaten half a petal of the red rose already, so perhaps she has already spoiled the thing and might as well - she picks up the red rose and eats it too.
Not long afterward, the queen falls pregnant. Her husband rejoices. She says nothing of the old woman or the roses. She convinces herself that she dreamed it all, or that she followed the instructions correctly, or that surely nothing that bad could happen.
Although her husband is very interested in the existence of their future child, he is rather less interested in the process. He finds an excuse to be out of the capital on kingly business around the time the baby is expected. The midwife tells the queen she's big enough for twins, and the queen thinks, perhaps I will have a boy and a girl, sweet and beautiful like my imaginary roses—
It is not to be.
She has a boy and a lindworm.
The lindworm comes out first, long and coily and covered in tiny green scales, with two skinny arms and a toothless dragon's head. The queen shrieks. The midwife, although unprepared for this eventuality, attempts to wrap the flailing lizard in a blanket on general principle; it hits her in the face with its tail and escapes out the window, and she is only just in time to catch the Queen's second child in a blanket that now smells faintly of lizard. Without a word passing between them, the Queen and her midwife agree that neither will speak of this incident ever again.
The new prince is named Taphinieu. The king and queen celebrate his birth with a huge feast, and do the same for his first birthday a year later. The Queen tries harder to convince herself that she dreamed both the roses and the ensuing lizard. She is moderately successful; and after the prince's first birthday, she has entirely different problems.
kindestgarden
Elsewhere in the kingdom, a rather annoyed mysterious old woman comes upon a different childless individual who is moping about.
"My dear," she says. "Why are you so sad?"
And the childless individual notes that this old woman's hair is a bit too pearly to be really white, and that there are unseasonable wildflowers in the path she walked to approach, and that her cloak holds itself closed without a pin or clasp, and she considers her reply.
"Well," she says, "I never got married when I was younger because I wanted to travel, and now I have, and I don't particularly want a husband or even a lover but I do wish I had a child."
"I see," says the mysterious old woman. "Would you like my advice?"
"Yes please," says the childless woman.
"Then listen closely and do just as I say. Go into the woods and find a log and carry it home, and clean it up of all the forest debris, and sit it in a chair, and then sew it a set of clothes - a dress for a girl, a shirt and pants for a boy, you must pick only one of these choices. And dress the log in the clothes and then tuck it into bed beside you and when you awaken you will have a child."
"Thank you," says the childless woman, and she goes in the woods and gets a log and dusts it off and sews it into a nice gingham dress and brings it to bed with her.
"My dear," she says. "Why are you so sad?"
And the childless individual notes that this old woman's hair is a bit too pearly to be really white, and that there are unseasonable wildflowers in the path she walked to approach, and that her cloak holds itself closed without a pin or clasp, and she considers her reply.
"Well," she says, "I never got married when I was younger because I wanted to travel, and now I have, and I don't particularly want a husband or even a lover but I do wish I had a child."
"I see," says the mysterious old woman. "Would you like my advice?"
"Yes please," says the childless woman.
"Then listen closely and do just as I say. Go into the woods and find a log and carry it home, and clean it up of all the forest debris, and sit it in a chair, and then sew it a set of clothes - a dress for a girl, a shirt and pants for a boy, you must pick only one of these choices. And dress the log in the clothes and then tuck it into bed beside you and when you awaken you will have a child."
"Thank you," says the childless woman, and she goes in the woods and gets a log and dusts it off and sews it into a nice gingham dress and brings it to bed with her.
spell_eternity
And in the morning she is snuggled up to a six-year-old child who looks just like her and wishes to know what's for breakfast.
mydarkness
Prince Taphinieu grows up quiet and serious. There is a feast every year in the capital for his birthday, eight nine ten eleven twelve. He learns reading and writing and equitation and statecraft and many other necessary princely skills.
When the prince is eighteen years old, his father the king decides that he must marry. The prince agrees. His father chooses a neighbouring kingdom and exchanges a few letters with its ruling family, and Prince Taphinieu sets out from Dianaevo on his princely horse with his princely entourage to formally request the princess's hand in marriage. He is told she is politically advantageous and not bad to look at. If he has any opinions on how well these attributes qualify her to be his wife, he keeps them to himself.
Two days out from the capital, he is riding along a pleasant road surrounded by flowery meadows, and the bushes by the side of the road rustle ominously, and there bursts forth an enormous serpent with a dragon's head and two scaly arms - a lindworm.
Needless to say, the prince was not expecting this development.
The beast speaks in a vast hissing voice like winter wind through bare rattling branches. "A bride for me before a bride for you!"
"Um," says Taphinieu nervously.
"A bride for me before a bride for you!" the lindworm repeats, advancing toward the prince and his guard.
"Yes, all right," says Taphinieu, and he turns around and leads his entourage back to the city and his parents' castle. When he tells them about the incident, Queen Joralina tearfully admits to her encounter with the mysterious old woman. King Antimoun is displeased. The prince is not seen again in public for a few weeks afterward. But the Lindworm is the elder child, and the logic of its demand is sound. The king sends for a princess from a more distant kingdom.
She arrives only a month later. By this time, rumours of the prince's encounter have already been circulating, but they do not reach her. So she is very surprised when she arrives to find the wedding party very small and subdued and nervous, and even more surprised when her groom slithers into the hall. Two local knights have to hold her in place for the ceremony, and carry her to the bridal bedchamber while the Lindworm slithers along in their wake, and whatever happens in that room during the night, at the end of it the Lindworm is curled up alone in the bridal bed with the shredded bloody remains of the princess's wedding dress.
The king declares this sufficient. He sends Taphinieu out again to court the neighbouring princess.
And again the Lindworm appears a few days' ride from the capital, and hisses mournfully: "A bride for me before a bride for you!"
"Hasn't anyone told this overgrown snake you can't have your bride and eat her too?" mutters the king; but clearly they need to find a princess with more staying power. He sends to kingdoms yet more distant, and in different directions; stories are already circulating after the first one, and after the second it is common knowledge in the kingdom that princesses go to the capital to be married and are never seen again. The neighbouring king withdraws his marriage offer. King Antimoun manages to secure a third princess, from a kingdom so far away that she does not speak the language at all. She screams most dreadfully at the sight of her long scaly groom, and they need four knights to subdue her; the King takes this as a good sign. But in the morning she has been devoured just as surely as the first two.
The compliant approach having failed, next the King tries ambushing the beast - sending Prince Taphinieu out in search of a bride and a sizeable company of mounted knights after him. The Lindworm appears and hisses its message. The knights attack. They hack the Lindworm nearly to pieces, and for a moment that seems to be that, but as they are turning back to report their success, the creature rises from the ground healthy and whole. "A bride for me before a bride for you!" it wails. The knights retreat.
The king returns to the bridal solution, and this time he doesn't much care who he puts in front of the beast as long as she is female and not previously married. The maidens of Dianaevo, at least all who can, find reasons to live in other cities. Those who are left find themselves marrying the Lindworm, one a week, and one a week they are devoured in the now frequently-washed bridal bed.
When the prince is eighteen years old, his father the king decides that he must marry. The prince agrees. His father chooses a neighbouring kingdom and exchanges a few letters with its ruling family, and Prince Taphinieu sets out from Dianaevo on his princely horse with his princely entourage to formally request the princess's hand in marriage. He is told she is politically advantageous and not bad to look at. If he has any opinions on how well these attributes qualify her to be his wife, he keeps them to himself.
Two days out from the capital, he is riding along a pleasant road surrounded by flowery meadows, and the bushes by the side of the road rustle ominously, and there bursts forth an enormous serpent with a dragon's head and two scaly arms - a lindworm.
Needless to say, the prince was not expecting this development.
The beast speaks in a vast hissing voice like winter wind through bare rattling branches. "A bride for me before a bride for you!"
"Um," says Taphinieu nervously.
"A bride for me before a bride for you!" the lindworm repeats, advancing toward the prince and his guard.
"Yes, all right," says Taphinieu, and he turns around and leads his entourage back to the city and his parents' castle. When he tells them about the incident, Queen Joralina tearfully admits to her encounter with the mysterious old woman. King Antimoun is displeased. The prince is not seen again in public for a few weeks afterward. But the Lindworm is the elder child, and the logic of its demand is sound. The king sends for a princess from a more distant kingdom.
She arrives only a month later. By this time, rumours of the prince's encounter have already been circulating, but they do not reach her. So she is very surprised when she arrives to find the wedding party very small and subdued and nervous, and even more surprised when her groom slithers into the hall. Two local knights have to hold her in place for the ceremony, and carry her to the bridal bedchamber while the Lindworm slithers along in their wake, and whatever happens in that room during the night, at the end of it the Lindworm is curled up alone in the bridal bed with the shredded bloody remains of the princess's wedding dress.
The king declares this sufficient. He sends Taphinieu out again to court the neighbouring princess.
And again the Lindworm appears a few days' ride from the capital, and hisses mournfully: "A bride for me before a bride for you!"
"Hasn't anyone told this overgrown snake you can't have your bride and eat her too?" mutters the king; but clearly they need to find a princess with more staying power. He sends to kingdoms yet more distant, and in different directions; stories are already circulating after the first one, and after the second it is common knowledge in the kingdom that princesses go to the capital to be married and are never seen again. The neighbouring king withdraws his marriage offer. King Antimoun manages to secure a third princess, from a kingdom so far away that she does not speak the language at all. She screams most dreadfully at the sight of her long scaly groom, and they need four knights to subdue her; the King takes this as a good sign. But in the morning she has been devoured just as surely as the first two.
The compliant approach having failed, next the King tries ambushing the beast - sending Prince Taphinieu out in search of a bride and a sizeable company of mounted knights after him. The Lindworm appears and hisses its message. The knights attack. They hack the Lindworm nearly to pieces, and for a moment that seems to be that, but as they are turning back to report their success, the creature rises from the ground healthy and whole. "A bride for me before a bride for you!" it wails. The knights retreat.
The king returns to the bridal solution, and this time he doesn't much care who he puts in front of the beast as long as she is female and not previously married. The maidens of Dianaevo, at least all who can, find reasons to live in other cities. Those who are left find themselves marrying the Lindworm, one a week, and one a week they are devoured in the now frequently-washed bridal bed.
spell_eternity
This is very alarming to the log child (now a teenager) and her mother. The log child starts seeking neighbor boys to conveniently marry, perhaps only for a little while.
And then one afternoon when the log child's mother is not home, a mysterious old woman comes up the path to their house, wrapped in shawls and leaning on her walking stick. The flowers in the yard turn to follow her as she passes, and tiny lights like distant stars sparkle in the depths of her black eyes.
"My dear," she says, "why are you so anxious?"
spell_eternity
What a mysterious old woman this visitor is.
"Well," says the log child, "on a weekly basis girls of about my age are being forcibly married and then eaten by what appears to be some sort of carnivorous and royal lizard. And I don't actually like the baker's son very much, and we don't have a horse and I might die, albeit perhaps less messily, if I tried to hike over the mountains to move to another town."
"Would you like my advice?" the old woman asks.
spell_eternity
Hoo boy.
Well, what are her non-magical options? ...Terrible.
"Yes."
And she pulls out a bit of paper and a stub of charcoal. Because it wouldn't do to forget something.
Well, what are her non-magical options? ...Terrible.
"Yes."
And she pulls out a bit of paper and a stub of charcoal. Because it wouldn't do to forget something.
"Then listen closely and do just as I say," says the old woman. "Tomorrow you will be asked to marry the elder prince. Before the marriage ceremony, dress yourself in ten snow-white shifts beneath your gown. Ask that a tub of lye, a tub of milk, and as many birch rods as a man can carry be brought to your bridal chamber. If you have practical difficulties accomplishing any of these preparations, you will find the younger prince very willing to help you. After you are wed, and your husband orders you to disrobe, bid him to shed a skin first. He will ask you this nine times, and when you are left wearing one shift you must whip him with the rods, wash him in the lye, bathe him in the milk, wrap him in the discarded shifts, and hold him in your arms."
spell_eternity
This is a bit of work to fit onto her bit of paper, but she gets it all down. She shivers a little. She's committed now, pretty much. "Thank you."
"You will find the results agreeable, provided you follow the instructions," says the mysterious old woman. She turns and putters away down the path.
spell_eternity
The log girl reads her instructions several times until she has them mostly memorized. Tub each lye and milk. A man-load of birch rods. Ten snow-white shifts under her gown, she hopes they keep it chilly up there, she doesn't want to be tempted to find out whether unbuttoning something is a problem and - turns her back into a log or something like that. Would she rather be turned back into a log than eaten? Well, yeah, she supposes, but it's not a good prospect.
She does not hastily marry the baker's boy. She does not trek over the mountains.
She does not hastily marry the baker's boy. She does not trek over the mountains.
The king's men come for her the next day. They seem quite prepared to deal with her should she try to flee; some of them also seem rather unsettled by the whole business, but not to the point of disobeying their monarch.
spell_eternity
She doesn't try to flee. She asks to please be shown where she may speak to her future brother-in-law.
mydarkness
...This is not a customary request, but the king's men escort her to the castle and instead of locking her in a room to wait for her wedding, they bring her to Prince Taphinieu's study and leave her in there with him.
The prince looks at her with a slightly helpless expression.
"Um. Hello," he says.
The prince looks at her with a slightly helpless expression.
"Um. Hello," he says.
spell_eternity
"Hello." She looks at her note-to-self. "I'll be brief, because I have no idea how difficult it will be for you to get me these things, but I'm under instructions from a mysterious old woman, and I need ten snow-white shifts in advance of the ceremony if at all possible, and in the bridal chamber I need a tub of lye, a tub of milk, and, quote, 'as many birch rods as a man can carry' to be there waiting for me. Can you get me those things?"
mydarkness
He blinks. "Yes," he says, now looking perhaps a tiny bit hopeful. "You wrote it down? That's clever. Are you sure you got it all right?"
spell_eternity
"I think so. I wrote it right as she was saying it. Do you want me to repeat it for you? I need the piece of paper because I have to do something complicated with all these materials."
mydarkness
"Ten snow-white shifts in advance of the ceremony, and in the bridal chamber a tub of lye, a tub of milk, and as many birch rods as a man can carry," the prince repeats, reaching for paper and a pen. "Is that right?"
spell_eternity
"That's right. Snow-white was specified and quality of shift was not; if you have to cut sleeve holes in a properly white flour sack I'd rather you do that than compromise with something nice in champagne, please. Size of tub was not specified but I think bigger is better, it would be too easy to knock over or run out of smaller amounts. Strength of man was not specified so if you have trouble finding enough rods load them up on someone really weak just to make sure it's at someone's capacity. Thank you very much."
mydarkness
"I'll take care of it," he says, writing all this down. "All right. I'll find you when I have the shifts."
Off goes the prince with his list, and the king's men escort her to a smaller and draftier room, where the prince shows up about an hour later carrying a bundle of cloth.
"I didn't have to cut up any flour sacks," he says, presenting them to her. "And there wasn't any trouble with the lye or the birch rods, and they're carrying the milk up to your room now."
Off goes the prince with his list, and the king's men escort her to a smaller and draftier room, where the prince shows up about an hour later carrying a bundle of cloth.
"I didn't have to cut up any flour sacks," he says, presenting them to her. "And there wasn't any trouble with the lye or the birch rods, and they're carrying the milk up to your room now."
mydarkness
There are ten. They are all extremely white.
"Is it okay?" the prince asks anxiously.
"Is it okay?" the prince asks anxiously.
spell_eternity
"I think so. Thank you very much. ...Entirely out of curiosity unrelated to my instructions, why is your brother a carnivorous lizard?"