enchantment – Hindsight

Hissy Fit

Welsh Coast in the Fog, 1887

THE TRAVELER COUNTED OUT THE COINS, then cocked a brow at the innkeeper’s wife. “You’ve shorted me on my change, madame.”

Megan snorted. “I have not. You ate three meals and had three pots of ale, plus two nights’ lodging.”

“Two meals and one pot only.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Megan hissed.

“A cheat.”

Megan squawked loud as any barnyard fowl. “To my own face, is it? I’ll have my husband throw you out!”

The traveler donned his wide-brimmed hat and shouldered his bag.

“I’ll not have you slandering me on my own premises!” the woman blared, jutting her head and flapping arms at him.

“Now love,” the innkeeper said. “I can hear you honking clear out in the stables! Calm down.”

“Honking, is it?” she shrieked, spraying spittle.

“Indeed it is,” the traveler said. He flicked his fingers at her. “Be the goose you are.”

Her gown and apron poofed out as if blown by a gale then collapsed in a pile on the floor. Among the clothing stood a wild goose. It honked and hissed and flapped wings at all the onlookers.

19th century painting of goose — *detail from “Breton Boy in a Landscape with Goose,” 1889, by Paul Gaugin (1848-1903)*

“My wife!” yelped the innkeeper. “What have you done to her?”

“Simply restored her proper shape. Let all see her for what she is.” The traveling wizard turned to go.

“You can’t leave her like that!” cried the innkeeper.

The wizard paused. “True. Michaelmas is coming up, isn’t it? Mustn’t let some poor fellow doom his soul by feasting on your wife. Here, her hair ribbon will do to set her apart.” He drew a ribbon out of the pile, grabbed the hissing goose, and tied the ribbon to one wing. “Bind her tight and keep her safe!” He flicked fingers at the goose as he set it free. “Tell the villagers to leave this one alone.” He strode out the door.

The innkeeper tried to shoo his bewitched wife out to the goose pen, but she bit his fingers and flew away, out of the village, across the fields, and down to the marshes by the beach. There she brooded and sulked.

19th century painting — *“Welsh Coast in the Fog,” 1887, by Alfred Sisley (1839-1899)*

One lonely day, waddling further up the coast, she came across a flock of wild geese. She joined them for lack of better company.

But better company she did not make. She hissed and squabbled with the other fowl. The day before Michaelmas, when snares and nets had taken three of their number to prepare for the feasting tables, nerves frayed among all the flock. Megan got in another quarrel. She honked and hissed and pecked at the geese closest to hand until, fed up, they attacked her back.

In the melee the ribbon came loose from her wing – and the wizard’s spell broke.

The flock scattered in fright when an angry woman stood up in their midst. She brushed herself off and stalked along the road toward town, not much the worse for wear.

A tale from Welsh folklore.

Michaelmas is celebrated on September 29.

artwork: 19th century paintings. Public domain info here.

Fiddler in the Waterfall

TOMMES SHIFTED THE BARLEY BAG from one shoulder to the other. As he strode up the dale to the watermill, he whistled a jaunty tune. His fortune was made. One night’s work and he’d win the hand of the heiress of Huvestad.

Ya sure, he knew her father had made the bargain in jest. But the words had been spoken loud and clear in a roomful of witnesses. Tommes would hold the old man to his vow. One bag of freshly-ground barley meal as bride-price.

Ya sure, the maiden had sniffed in disdain when Tommes had taken up the challenge.

Ya sure, he’d heard the stories of the haunted watermill. Nightmares had plagued Old Olaf ever since he’d lingered there past sundown a year ago. Fru Gunnhild had heard high-pitched voices and crazy laughter when she had stayed until dark. Halvor’s cap had spun round and round on his head like a flibbertigibbet.

Tommes tromped along bare-headed. No cap to spin. Wool to stuff in his ears. And a cross hanging on a chain around his neck. He smiled and felt for the talisman.

His stride faltered. The cross wasn’t there.

Uff da! He remembered now. He’d left it hanging by the door.

Go back?

Nei, he’d make a wooden cross once he got the watermill’s gears set and ready to grind flour.

The dale narrowed at the upper end into a gorge lancing into the forested ridge. The millhouse, already in shadow, sat just downstream from a waterfall. Tommes quit whistling. He kept his gaze from the cascading foss where dwelt the fossegrim. He would work quickly and quietly, giving no offense to the grim that haunted the millrace.

The cool moist air smelled of watermint. The stream chuckled as he unbarred the door, creaked it open, and stepped inside.

Pitch dark. He set down the barley. From his belt pouch he took a candle, flint and steel, and soon had a small flickering light. He lit lamps, worked the gears into position for engaging the millstone and poured barley into the chute.

Now to lever the wheel into the swiftly-flowing millrace, then he’d make that cross.

A skirl of music sounded from outside.

Tommes startled. Time for wool to plug his ears. He rummaged in his pouch.

Fiddle music in an eerie tune he’d never heard before — lively music, dance music. His feet shuffled in time while his fingers felt around for the wool.

The melody rippled through the air, rippled right into Tommes’ legs. His arms flew up on their own. He jigged, leaped and spun around the room. In despair he snatched a glance at the waterwheel lever. Time after time he tried to dance his way close, to set the mill into operation.

Music enchanted his feet, swept him away every time.

He danced all night.

Silence fell at dawn. Tommes crumpled to the floor.

Voice’s rang in the forest, men’s voices. Folk coming to see how he’d fared.

No fortune made this night.

artwork: 19th century paintings. Public domain info here.

Ribbons

KNUT AMBLED DOWN THE STEEP PASTURE SLOPES, fiddle case tucked under one arm. Sunlight spilled over the eastern ridge. Morning breezes wafted with the scent of juniper and spruce, with the barest whiff of manure.

Tov caught up, grinning. “One last kiss,” he boasted.

“If her father finds out, you’ll be wed before harvest,” Knut said, punching his friend’s shoulder.

“We did nothing but dance. I have blistered feet to prove it.”

“Didn’t you get tired of the same old tunes all night? I did. I have blistered fingers to prove it.” Knut waggled his free hand.

Tov shrugged. “Familiar tunes, familiar steps, fast and frenzied, the way we all like it.”

“Ah yes. Your feet do the dancing, freeing up mind and heart for the flirting.”

Tov yawned. “After a night like that, I could sleep all day.”

“Should have left before cockcrow, like the other guys did.”

“Listen to the cows low! The girls will fall asleep at their milking.”

“What a gallant beau you are, to leave at first sign of chores!”

19th century paintning — *“Edge of the Spruce Forest,” 1881, by Viktor Vasnetsov (1848-1926)*

The path left the high mountain farm of Svinøkslid and plunged into thick spruce forest below. Morning dimmed to mystical twilight.

“Look!” Tov said. “Night settles again. I’ll just settle me under a tree, snatch a short nap. Go on without me.”

“No you don’t! You’ll be sneaking back to Svinøkslid and—” Knut broke off and halted.

The keening notes of a fiddle floated through the cool, tangy air. Knut swung about, straining to get a fix on the direction.

Ah. Uphill – but not toward the farm. Up opposite slopes toward wild terrain too rough for cattle, unbroken by paths, cloaked in towering evergreens.

“What’s that melody?” Tov asked, voice hushed.

The tune swirled in and out and around itself, ribbons of music tangling in the wind.

“I’ve never heard anyone play like that!” Knut whispered, entranced. His fingers twitched, yearning to catch the melody and sing it on his own strings.

The haunting song swelled. It wrapped like a serpent around the two young men, pinned them motionless on the path.

Twilight deepened. Or had their eyes simply ceased to catch light?

No breeze stirred. Or had their skin fallen senseless?

No sense remained but that of hearing.

Buried in the unearthly tones, Knut heard a scuffling. He felt a jostling. His own feet, dancing in the dark, keeping time with the skirling, magical music. Enchantment! he realized with a jolt.

“Tussar!” he blurted.

Light returned. Wind whispered across his cheek. Chaff settled. Knut looked down at the path, where his feet and Tov’s had stirred the dirt into a dust bath. How long had the music bewitched them?

“What?” Tov croaked, blinking.

“Tussar-folk. Tussar-music. Elf magic.” Relief washed through Knut, but also despair. He’d silenced the glorious melody. He dashed uphill, the direction he’d fixed, but found no sign of any creature. Impenetrable forest soon barred his way.

Ever after, elven music wound its tendrils through the dreams of two lucky – unlucky? – fellows.

Folktale from Svinøkslid farm, as found in “Tussar og Trolldom,” a collection of folklore local to Telemark, Norway. This source also says (translated by author Joyce Holt):

“Tusse-slaatten is the name of a melody which was played on a fiddle; it’s a mixture of gangar and springar. In the old days around Brekke farm they once heard tussar-folk play and dance this tune. When they danced downhill, the tune was springar, and when they dance over the level or uphill, it was gangar.”

Gangar is an even two-beat pattern, for a dance at an even walking pace; springar has a syncopated three-beat pattern, with dancers slightly dipping on the second beat and springing up on the third.

artwork: 19th century painting: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.