Child of the Spirits
From the telling of CapriUni
I wrote this for semiannual event called "The Art Garden" which is
held at the Depot Theater in Garrison, New York. It is structured like a
literary magazine, with the editor sending out a theme to selected writers,
and then arranging their various submissions (which can be anything from
skits to poems, songs to essays) into a coherent whole, except that the
pieces are performed in front of an audience instead of being printed on the
page. The story that follows was written for the November, 2000 "issue", and
the theme was "Children"
Once, a poor woodcutter lived alone at the edge of a large forest. He had
lived without human companionship for so long, he had forgotten what it meant
to be lonely - his friends were the spirits of the forest, and he always
treated them with respect. No matter how hungry he was, he never took
anything from the trees without asking their permission first.
One day, the spirits had a meeting.
The queen of the tree spirits spoke first. "This man is rare," she said.
"Even though his need is great, he still remembers us when the rich folk have
forgotten. If only he had a child to teach, then maybe we would be
remembered a little while longer after he dies."
"Then let us make a child for him," the wind king suggested.
The others agreed, and each pledged to give something.
The stone beings gave the child her bones. The tree spirits gave her flesh.
The spirits of the streams gave the child her blood. Each breeze, wind and
bird added a tone for her voice. The deer gave her speed, the wolf tenacity.
The spider gave her skill, and the mouse gave her patience. And so it was
with all the spirits - each giving a small part of themselves to the whole
child. When she was complete in every way, they gave her their blessings,
and left her sleeping beside the path.
The woodcutter found her there the next morning. "What is your name, child?"
he asked.
But she only looked at him and couldn't answer, for the forest spirits could
not give her human speech.
He took her back to the village and asked everyone who she was, but no one
claimed her, so he took her home to live with him.
He was soon delighted with the beautiful child, and along with his work in
the forest, he began the task of teaching her speech and all the other things
she needed to be human.
She could be as sweet and charming as a spring morning. But when angry, her
voice was like thunder. And if anyone crossed her, she fought like a wolf.
Her father tried taming her, but even though she couldn't remember the
spirits who made her, she honored their gifts. As she fought to keep the
wild and dark blessings of the forest, those gifts grew stronger and more
refined. The tenacity of wolf bound together with the patience of mouse. The
energy of hummingbird united with the strength of stone. As each gift grew,
so did the child - within one turning of the moon, she was as tall and poised
as any young woman.
She was fascinated by all the things her father taught her, but especially
the lore of the forest - it was as though these lessons were her birthright,
and she claimed them for her own. She'd follow her father into the forest
each day, taking in the names of every creature and plant, and the proper way
each should be addressed.
He also told her stories. Some he told in hushed and reverent tones, and
others with a wink and a chuckle. One was the story of the lake where she
liked to play. It formed, he told her, when a giant who lived above the
clouds knocked his favorite goblet off the table; it landed right side up,
falling into the soft earth right up to its brim.
"Drink too much of its water," he said, "and you'll get tipsy, for the
giant's wine is still inside." And he'd act tipsy until she giggled.
She taught him, as well. Her eyes were keen and her ears acute. She seemed
to understand the language of the birds, and could read the leaves of trees
as a scholar reads the pages of a book.
Her confidence grew each day, and she would wander farther into the forest.
At first, she'd return and share her adventures, but then she turned silent
and pensive, hearing voices only she understood.
He would ask her what was wrong, but she would only shake her head - the
language he had taught her did not have words for the things she was now
learning from the spirits that made her.
One day, however, she said to him: "I carry your stories inside me. And now
I have stories from the trees and stones as well. They are awakening,
demanding to be told. I must go and find an audience to listen."
The old man was sad to see her go, but proud as well, and he gave her his
strongest blessings.
She went into the village marketplace, but people there were too busy selling
their wares to stop for a story. She went into the tavern, but it was too
loud, and she could not be heard. She visited the farmers, but they were too
busy plowing. After many days of searching, she returned to the wilderness
and climbed a high mountain to tell her stories to the winds. Surely, she
thought, they will carry the stories across the world, and someone will hear
them and come to listen.
One day, someone did come. She felt him before she saw him, pulling the
rhythm of her telling as the moon pulls the sea. When the story ended, she
asked him who he was, and how he came there, for he did not look like one
accustomed to the forest.
"I am a prince," he answered. "I am on a quest for my father's crown.
According to prophecy, the throne must go to the one who shows the king three
treasures of legend. But I have been searching for a long time, and I fear
they are impossible."
"I, too, had been searching for something --" she said, "someone to hear my
story. Because you have given me my treasure, I will help you search for
yours. What is the first wonder you must find?"
"A yard of net fine enough to catch the dawn."
She laughed, and said the king would see such a treasure for himself in the
morning. She called the spiders of the forest, and told them what the king
wanted, and then told the prince what to do.
The spiders entered the castle in secret, slipping through cracks in the
thick stone walls, unseen and unheard by all within, working in secret
through the night.
Just before dawn, the prince woke his father, and showed him the east window
of his bedroom chamber.
As the sun rose, the light of dawn was caught in a net of spiders' webs.
The king declared that the first treasure had been found.
The prince returned to the girl and told her what had happened.
"Now," she asked, "what is the second treasure?"
"A giant's goblet that no man can lift, but all may drink
from."
The girl smiled. "I know where such a goblet is, Your Highness. If you'll
follow me, I will lead you there, myself." She brought him to the lake where
she had played, and told him her father's story. "Here is your goblet," she
told him. "Bring the king here tomorrow, and tell him what I've told you."
The prince did just that, and when the king saw the lake, he declared that
the second treasure had been found.
The prince returned to the girl again, and told her how well it had gone.
"I'm glad," she said. "What is the last treasure?"
"A thing lighter than the wind, able to pierce what a nail cannot."
She thought for a long time, but at last she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she
said, "I don't know what that could be."
But the prince was smiling, now. "I do - it is the story I heard you tell on
the mountainside. It has pierced my very thoughts," he said. "Come tell it
to the king."
This she gladly did, and when it was over, the king declared the third
treasure was found, and that his son was indeed his true heir. He invited
the girl to remain at court, and her father as well.
She accepted, and the two of them told their stories to all who listened.
The tales spread throughout the kingdom - even into the tavern and the
marketplace, and so the spirits of the forest are remembered.
-- Ann Magill
Return
To Top Of This Page
Return
To The Mudcat Storytellers' Page