Timothy Ferguson's Blog, page 7

Ashcan and audio of Mythic Venice Chapter One

An ashcan, by way of an explanation, is a proof of concept piece of work. In terms of the public facing part of this, it now pauses until the Atlas license goes live. I don’t want to do substantial layout work and then find, for example, that the character of Tytalus is off the table. Also, if Atlas uses something like a Drivethru RPG Developer Community, it may give me art assets to use that will lower my budget.

Just flicking through it now I can see the “Changes to Virtues” header needs work…sigh. Any feedback you give on this project becomes my IP. Sorry for the legalese: I need to keep the IP solid until the license comes out. For clarity this is currently not under an Open License, but it is intended to be once Atlas publishes theirs with the Definitive Edition Kickstart.

Audio: https://gamesfromfolktales.libsyn.com/podcast/500-mythic-venice-player-chapter-ashcan

Mythic Venice Ashcan Chapter 1Download

Witch stories: The Headless Bear and the Witch on the Plank

This is the third and last episode in our little series of witch stories by Linton. There was one story that I cut out because in the LibriVox recording the story took around 20 minutes, and I wanted it mostly for its Tolkienesque twist. Here’s the precis: There is a witch, a man, unusually, who is taken and freely confesses and so isn’t put to the torture. He confesses all kinds of things, because he says no man may kill him, Satan has promised it so. Then he eats his last meal and he’s wonderfully cheery. They take him to his place of execution and the executioner hasn’t turned up, because he’s been struck down by disease, or possibly magi. The witch says “See, I told you so. No man may kill me.”.

They put him back in his cell and say, “See you tomorrow.” and they go to the executioner’s wife and say, would you like to strangle a man who’s just ensorcelled your husband?” She readily agrees to be his executioner. The next day, the man denounces Satan for his trickery and then he’s strangled to death by a woman.

Let us pass over to our last two stories, and thanks again to the readers. Thanks to the Librivox readers and their production teams.

***

THE WOMAN AND THE BEAR

One Stephen Cooper, of Ditchet, a yeoman of honest reputation, good wealth, and well beloved by his neighbours, being sick and weak, sent his wife Margaret to a farm of his at Rockington, Gloucestershire, where she remained a few days—not finding all to her liking, she said. When she returned she found her husband somewhat better, but she herself was strange and wild, using much idle talk to him concerning an old groat which her little son had found and which she wanted to see, and raving about the farm in Gloucestershire, as if she had been bewitched, and knew not what she said. Then she began to change in very face, and to look on her husband with “a sad and staring countenance;” and, one night, things came to a climax, for she got very wild and bad, and shook so frightfully that they could scarce keep her down in the bed; and then she began talking of a headless bear, which, she said, she had been into the town to beat away during the time of her fit, and which had followed her from Rockington: as the sequel proved was true. Her friends and husband exhorted her to prayer and patience, but she still continued marvellously holden, the Devil getting quite the better of her until Sunday night, when she seemed to come to her worst. Suddenly the candle, which they had not been noticing, went out, and she set up a lamentable cry; they lighted another, but it burnt so dim it was almost useless, and the friends and neighbours themselves began to be disquieted. Wildly and hurriedly cried Margaret, “Look! do you not see the Devil?” herself all terrified and disturbed. They bade her be still and pray. Then said Margaret, “Well, if you see nothing now, you shall see something by and bye;” and “forthwith they heard a noise in the streete, as it had been the coming of two or three carts, and presently they in the chamber cried out, ‘Lord helpe us, what manner of thing is this that commeth here!’” For up to the bedside where the woman lay with heaving breasts and dilated eyes, came a thing like a bear, only that it had no head and no tail; a thing “half a yard in height and half a yard in length” (no bigger, Margaret? not so big as a well-trussed man on all-fours?) which, when her husband saw, he took a joyn’d stool, and “stroke” at it, and the blow sounded as though it had fallen on a feather bed. But the creature took no notice of the man: it wanted only Margaret. Slowly it paddled round the bed, then smote her thrice on the feet, took her out of bed, and rolled her to and fro in the chamber, round about the floor and under the bed; the husband and friends, sore amazed and affrighted, only calling on God to assist them, not daring to lift a hand for themselves or her. And all the while the candle grew dimmer and dimmer, so that they could scarce see each other: which was what Margaret and the headless bear, no doubt, desired. Then the creature took her in its arms, thrust her head between her legs so that he made her into a round ball, and “so roulled her in a rounde compasse like an Hoope through three other Chambers, downe an highe paire of staires, in the Hall, where he kept her for the space of a quarter of an hour.” The people above durst not come down, but remained above, weeping pitifully and praying with loud and fervent prayer. And there was such a terrible stench in the hall, and such fiery flames darting hither and thither, that they were fain to stop their noses with clothes and napkins, expecting every moment to find that hell was opening beneath their feet, and that they would be no longer able to keep out of harm’s way and the Devil’s. Then Margaret cried out, “He is gone. Now he is gone!” and her husband joyfully bade her come up to him again; which she did, but so quickly that they greatly marvelled at it, and thought to be sure the Devil had helped her. Yet she proved to be none the worse for the encounter: which was singular, as times went. They then put her in bed, and four of them kept down the clothes, praying fervently. Suddenly the woman was got out of bed: she did not move herself by nerves, muscles, or will, of course; but she was carried out by a supernatural power, and taken to the window at the head of the bed. But whether the devil or she opened the window, the pamphlet does not determine. Then her legs were thrust out of the window, and the people heard a thing knock at her feet as if it had been upon a tub; and they saw a great fire, and they smelt a grievous smell; and then, by the help of their prayers, they pulled Margaret into the room again, and set her upon her feet. After a few moments she cried out, “O Lord, methinks I see a little childe!” But they paid no heed to her. Twice or thrice she said this, and ever more earnestly; and at last they all looked out at the window, for they thought to be sure she must have some meaning for her raving. And “loe, they espied a thing like unto a little child, with a bright shining countenaunce casting a greate light in the chamber.” And then the candle, which had hitherto burnt blue and dim, gave out its natural light so that they could all see each other. Whereupon they fell to joyful prayer, and gave thanks to God for the deliverance. And Margaret Cooper was laid in her bed again, calm, smiling, and collected, never more to be troubled by a Headless Bear which rolled her about like a ball, or by a bright shining child looking out from the chinks of a rude magic lantern. As for the bear, I confess I think he was nearer akin to man than devil; that he was known about Rockington in Gloucestershire; and that Margaret Cooper understood the conduct of the plot from first to last. But then this is the sceptical nineteenth century, wherein the wiles of human cunning are more believed in than the power of the devil, or the miracles of supernaturalism. Yet this was a case which, in spite of all its fraud and folly so patently displayed, was cited as one of the most notorious and striking instances of the power of Satan over the bodies as well as the souls of those who gave themselves up to the things of the world.

THE WITCH ON A PLANK

“Many are in a belief that this silly sex of women can by no means attaine to that so vile and damned a practise of Sorcery and Witchcraft, in regard of their illiteratenesse and want of learning, which many men have by great learning done;” nevertheless the Earl of Essex and his army, marching through Newberry, saw a feat done by a woman which not the most learned man of them all could have accomplished by natural means. Two soldiers were loitering behind the main body, gathering nuts, blackberries, and the like, when one climbed up a tree for sport, and the other followed him, jesting. From their vantage place, looking on the river, they there espied a “tall, lean, slender woman treading of the water with her feet with as much ease and firmnesse as if one should walk or trample on the earth.” The soldier called to his companion, and he to the rest; and soon they all—captains, privates, and commanders alike—saw this marvellous lean woman, who now they perceived was standing on a thin plank, “which she pushed this way and that at her pleasure, making it a pastime to her, little perceiving who was on her tracks.” Then she crossed the river, and the army after her; but there they lost her for a time, and when they found her all were too cowardly to seize her. At last one dare-devil went up and boldly caught her, demanding what she was. The poor wretch was dumb—perhaps with terror—and spoke nothing; so they dragged her before the commanders, “to whom, though she was mightily urged, she did reply as little.” As they could bethink themselves of nothing better to do with her, they set her upright against a mud bank or wall, and two of the soldiers, at their captain’s command, made ready and fired. “But with a deriding and loud laughter at them, she caught their bullets in her hands and chew’d them, which was a stronger testimony than her treading water that she was the same that their imagination thought her for to be.” Then one of the men set his carbine against her breast and fired; but the bullet rebounded like a ball, and narrowly missed the face of the shooter, which “so enraged the Gentleman, that one drew out his sword and manfully run at her with all the force his strength had power to make, but it prevailed no more than did the shot, the woman though still speechlesse, yet in a most contemptible way of Scorn still laughing at them, which did the more exhaust their furie against her life; yet one amongst the rest had heard that piercing or drawing bloud from forth the veines that crosse the temples of the head, it would prevail against the strongest sorcery, and quell the force of Witchcraft, which was allowed for Triall: the woman, hearing this, knew then the Devill had left her, and her power was gone; wherefore she began alowd to cry and roare, tearing her haire, and making pitious moan, which in these words expressed were: And is it come to passe that I must dye indeed? Why then his Excellency the Earle of Essex shall be fortunate and win the field. After which no more words could be got from her; wherewith they immediately discharged a Pistoll underneath her eare, at which she straight sunk down and dyed, leaving her legacy of a detested carcasse to the wormes, her soul we ought not to iudge of, though the euills of her wicked life and death can scape no censure. Finis. This Book is not Printed according to order.”

A note on the Venice material: I’ve changed the Palace.

Hello!

The ashcan version of the players’ chapter is all but ready to be released. I accidentally gave unclear instructions to the cartographer about a map and he labelled it in Italian and English, so once he tidies that up I’ll have that ready to go out.

The temptation, of course, is to put it off for a few months so it is episode 500 of Games From Folktales.

Aside from a map of the islands of the lagoons and a map of Venice, I’ve also ordered a deck plan of a Venetian great galley and a map of the four levels of the Ducal Palace. In the previous rough drafts you’ll have seen that the palace switches between the C12 and C15th century layouts? Well, it turns out we have really great documentation for an even later layout, including floor plans, so I’ll be using those instead. I have an artist redrawing them and annotating them in English. The originals are here, but the people who look after the Ducal Palace now say some of the rooms are in the wrong places on this map, so I’ve switched them to their real world locations.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Floorplans_and_facades_of_the_Doge%27s_Palace_by_Francesco_Zanotto

I hope you like surreal art by Turner, because he and Canaletto are going to be holding up the rest of my art budget.

That I’ve used outside art has, alas, made this a commercial venture. Up until I needed an art budget my whole production was on a shoestring. Now I’m out of pocket about 250USD. That’s cheap for 7 pieces but it does mean that it would be sensible of me to try and reuse the material for a journaling game and a D&D Domain of Dread. At $10 a copy with Drivethru taking 30% and tax at 30% I’d need to sell about 50 copies to break even, and that’s possible, but it does make it harder for me to make any money for my time on the whole thing. Still, this is all a useful learning experience.

So, the plan is to do up the player character ashcan and record it as a podcast episode. That will let you get your players to listen to it if they won’t read their chapter and it gives an easy way for potential buyers to sample the product. I’ll likely use that document to test out how to put the document on platforms like Drivethru. I’ll continue to work up the full book, and then see what happens with the open license, before making whatever changes are needed and launching it, At this point I feel that the text is essentially locked. I need to make a few changes because of the newer floorplan of the Ducal Palace, and there’s one more False God who needs stats…but that seem like it for now.

Goethe: The Erl-King, The Treasure Seeker and the Magician’s Apprentice

This is the second episode of poems from Goethe. Two of these will get stats eventually, and the middle is what happens when you fumble while selling your soul.

Alan Mapstone pronounces “Erl king” in a way that I’m forced to admit is correct, but sounds strange to my ear. The word he’s saying is the ancestor of the modern words “earl” and “jarl” which is why the leading vowel sounds like its partway between the modern vowels.

The word traditionally was read as meaning “elf king” but Goethe, personally, is where an altered reading enters folklore. He’s the source of the idea that it refers to the black alder tree. His poem has a precise location. It’s from the Saale Valley in the Rhine Tribunal.

The Erl-King

Who rides so late through the grisly night?
‘Tis a father and child, and he grasps him tight
He wraps him close in his mantle’s fold,
And shelters the boy from the piercing cold.
” My son, why thus to my arm dost cling?”

” Father, dost thou not see the Erle-king ?
The king with his crown and his long black train ! “
” My son, ’tis a streak of the misty rain ! “

” Come hither, thou darling ! come, go with me
Fine games know I that I’ll play with thee
Flowers many and bright do my kingdoms hold,
My mother has many a robe of gold.
” Oh father, dear father ! and dost thou not hear
What the Erlie-king whispers so low in mine ear 1 “
” Calm, calm thee, my boy, it is only the breeze,
As it rustles the wither’d leaves under the trees ! “

” Wilt thou go, bonny boy ! wilt thou go with me “?
My daughters shall wait on thee daintilie
My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep,
And rock thee, and kiss thee, and sing thee to sleep ! “
” O father, dear father ! and dost thou not mark
Erlie-king’s daughters move by in the dark ?

” I see it, my child ; but it is not they,
‘Tis the old willow nodding its head so grey ! “
” I love thee ! thy beauty, it charms me so ;
And I’ll take thee by force, if thou wilt not go ! “
” O father, dear father ! he’s grasping me

My heart is as cold as cold can be ! “
The father rides swiftly—with terror he gasps
The sobbing child in his arms he clasps ;
He reaches the castle with spurring and dread ;
But, alack ! in his arms the child lay dead !

What happens if you fumble selling your soul? Here’s the answer from Goethe.

The Treasure Seeker
I.
Many weary days I suffer’d,
Sick of heart and poor of purse
Riches are the greatest blessing
Poverty the deepest curse
Till at last to dig a treasure
Forth I went into the wood
” Fiend ! my soul is thine for ever ! “
And I sign’d the scroll with blood.

II.
Then I drew the magic circles,
Kindled the mysterious fire,
Placed the herbs and bones in order,
Spoke the incantation dire.
And I sought the buried metal
With a spell of mickle might
Sought it as my master taught me
Black and stormy was the night.

III.
And I saw a light appearing
In the distance, like a star
When the midnight hour was tolling,
Came it waxing from afar
Came it flashing, swift and sudden,
As if fiery wine it were,
Flowing from an open chalice.
Which a beauteous boy did bear.

IV.
And he wore a lustrous chaplet.
And his eyes were full of thought,
As he stepp’d into the circle
With the radiance that he brought.
And he bade me taste the goblet
And I thought—” It cannot be.
That this boy should be the bearer
Of the Demon’s gifts to me ! “

V.
” Taste the draught of pure existence
sparkling in this golden urn,
And no more with baleful magic
Shalt thou hitherward return.
Do not seek for treasures longer
Let thy future spellwords be,
Days of labour, nights of resting
So shall peace return to thee

The Magician’s Apprentice

This is the poem that was reworked by Disney as “Fantasia”. The spirit of the broom needs statistics eventually. The story is ultimately descended from The Lover of Lies by Lucian, where the sorcerer is a priest of Isis. This earlier version might suit Ars Magica better. I’ll quickly add it here: as it is only a couple of paragraphs long. This is from the Fowler and Fowler translation.

‘When I was a young man, I passed some time in Egypt, my father having sent me to that country for my education. I took it into my head to sail up the Nile to Coptus, and thence pay a visit to the statue of Memnon, and hear the curious sound that proceeds from it at sunrise. In this respect, I was more fortunate than most people, who hear nothing but an indistinct voice: Memnon actually opened his lips, and delivered me an oracle in seven hexameters; it is foreign to my present purpose, or I would quote you the very lines. Well now, one of my fellow passengers on the way up was a scribe of Memphis, an extraordinarily able man, versed in all the lore of the Egyptians. He was said to have passed twenty-three years of his life underground in the tombs, studying occult sciences under the instruction of Isis herself.’ ‘You must mean the divine Pancrates, my teacher,’ exclaimed Arignotus; ‘tall, clean-shaven, snub-nosed, protruding lips, rather thin in the legs; dresses entirely in linen, has a thoughtful expression, and speaks Greek with a slight accent?’ ‘Yes, it was Pancrates himself. I knew nothing about him at first, but whenever we anchored I used to see him doing the most marvellous things,—for instance, he would actually ride on the crocodiles’ backs, and swim about among the brutes, and they would fawn upon him and wag their tails; and then I realized that he was no common man. I made some advances, and by imperceptible degrees came to be on quite a friendly footing with him, and was admitted to a share in his mysterious arts. The end of it was, that he prevailed on me to leave all my servants behind at Memphis, and accompany him alone; assuring me that we should not want for attendance. This plan we accordingly followed from that time onwards. Whenever we came to an inn, he used to take up the bar of the door, or a broom, or perhaps a pestle, dress it up in clothes, and utter a certain incantation; whereupon the thing would begin to walk about, so that every one took it for a man. It would go off and draw water, buy and cook provisions, and make itself generally useful. When we had no further occasion for its services, there was another incantation, after which the broom was a broom once more, or the pestle a pestle. I could never get him to teach me this incantation, though it was not for want of trying; open as he was about everything else, he guarded this one secret jealously. At last one day I hid in a dark corner, and overheard the magic syllables; they were three in number. The Egyptian gave the pestle its instructions, and then went off to the market. Well, next day he was again busy in the market: so I took the pestle, dressed it, pronounced the three syllables exactly as he had done, and ordered it to become a water-carrier. It brought me the pitcher full; and then I said: Stop: be water-carrier no longer, but pestle as heretofore. But the thing would take no notice of me: it went on drawing water the whole time, until at last the house was full of it. This was awkward: if Pancrates came back, he would be angry, I thought (and so indeed it turned out). I took an axe, and cut the pestle in two. The result was that both halves took pitchers and fetched water; I had two water-carriers instead of one. This was still going on, when Pancrates appeared. He saw how things stood, and turned the water-carriers back into wood; and then he withdrew himself from me, and went away, whither I knew not.’

Now, back to Goethe.

Huzzah, huzzah ! His back is fairly
Turned about, the wizard old
And I’ll now his spirits rarely
To my will and pleasure mould
His spells and orgies—ha’n’t I
Marked them all aright
And I’ll do wonders, sha’n’t I
And deeds of mickle might.
Hear ye ! hear ye
Hence ! your spritely
Office rightly,
Featly showing
Toil, until with water clear, ye
Fill the bath to overflowing

Ho, thou battered broomstick ! take ye
This old seedy coat and wear it
Ha, thou household drudge ! I’ll make ye
Do my bidding ; ay, and fear it.
Don of legs a pair, now
A head too, for the nonce
To the river there, now
Bear the pail at once
Hear ye ! hear ye
Hence ! your spritely
Office rightly,
Featly showing
Toil, until with water clear, ye
Fill the bath to overflowing.

See, ’tis off—’tis at the river
In the stream the bucket flashes
Now ’tis back—and down, or ever
You can wink, the burden dashes.
Again, again, and quicker
The floor is in a swim.
And every stoup and bicker
Is running o’er the brim.
Stop, now stop
You have granted
All I wanted.
Stop! Oh rot it!
Running still ? I’m like to drop
What’s the word ? I’ve clean forgot it

Oh, the word, so strong and baleful,
To make it what it was before
There it skips with pail on pailful
Would thou wert a broom once more
Still new streams he scatters,
Found and ever round me
Oh, a hundred waters,
Rushing in, confound me
No—^no longer,
Can I brook it
I’ll rebuke it
Vile abortion
Woe is me, my fears grow stronger.
What grimacing, what contortion

Wilt thou, offspring of the devil,
Drench the house in hellish funning ?
Even now, above the level
Of the door, the water’s running.
Stop, wretch ! Won’t you hear me !
Only you come near me
Stop, broom, stop, I say !
Stop, I tell you,
I’ll not bear it.
No, I swear it
Let me catch you.
And upon the spot I’ll fell you
With my hatchet, and despatch you.

Back it comes—^will nought prevent it *?
If I only tackle to thee.
Soon, O Kobold ! thou’lt repent it,
When the steel goes crashing thro’ thee.
Bravely struck, and surely
There it goes in twain
Now I move securely.
And I breathe again
Woe and wonder
As it parted,
Straight up started,
‘Quipped aright.
Goblins twain that rush asunder.
Help, O help, ye powers of might

Deep and deeper grows the water
On the stairs and in the hall,
Rushing in with roar and clatter
Lord and master, hear me call
Ah, here comes the master
Sore, sir, is my strait
I raised this spirit faster
Far than I can lay’t.
” Broom, avaunt thee
To thy nook there
Lie, thou spook, there
Only answer,
When for mine own ends I want thee,
I, the master necromancer ! “

Venice : A Revener on the Lagoons from Horatio Brown

I found a little ghost story in my researches for Venice. It has what we’d call a revener in Ars Magica (see Realms of Power: The Infernal). I’m not usuing this story in the Venice material, although I suggest a valle, as described later, might make a good navigable point outside The Shoruded Glen ritual which hides a covenant on a lost island.

For many centuries the lagoons of Venice have been divided into districts for the purposes of fishing . These tracts of water are not distinguished by any boundaries visible to the eye ; but their limits are well known to the fishermen who make their living upon them . In the shallower parts , where the oozy bed of the lagoon is left bare by each receding tide , the fishermen mark off a certain portion , and surround it by a palisade of wattled cane, called a grisiola . Inside this palisade the mud is dug into deep ditches , so that there shall always be water in them , even when the tide is low. These enclosures are called valli, and here the fish are driven in spring to spawn . Each valle has a little hut belonging to it, built either on piles or on forced soil , and made of bricks or of wattled cane, plastered with mud . The hut usually contains one square room , a door , and two windows . The fishermen require these cabins , for they some times spend three or four days together in the remote lagoon , sending their fish to market every morning by one of their number , just as the deep – sea fishers of Chioggia do.

In the fifteenth century there were sixty -one of these valli ; but many have now been destroyed ; and the high tides flow uninterruptedly over the larger portion of the lagoon surface . Those which still exist lie , for the most part , in the remote and little frequented reaches, and follow closely the line of the mainland , while towards the lidi hardlyany are in work. For though The landscape of these distant fishing -grounds is vast and solitary. The sense of loneliness is heightened by the isolated hut , rising square from the water, the only habitation visible . On all sides. the seeming -endless plain stretches away . these valli lie near the mainland , the earth is so low there that the eye perceives no difference of level, but passes on until it rests at length upon the faint blue Euganean Hills ; or, on the other side , across the long grey water levels the sight may range —mile upon mile of pearly surface trending away -till on
the very offing it finds Venice , a rosy -orange lotus basking on the water ; or the Armenian convent , a burning crimson point ; or, further still to the right, some few solitary trees by the port of Malamocco….

And the very names of some of these valli have a suggestion of the uncanny about them -the Val dell’Inferno, or the Valle dei Sette Morti , for example . Of the Valle dei Sette Morti there is a story current among the gondoliers and fishermen . There were six men fishing once in this ” Valle ” of the Seven Dead. They had with them a little boy , the son of one of their number . The boy did not go fishing with his father , but stayed behind to take care of the hut , and to cook the food for the men when they returned . He spent the nights alone in the cabin , for most of the fishing was done between sunset and sunrise . One day , as the dawn was beginning across the water , the men stopped their fishing and began to row home with their load, as usual .

As they rowed along they met the body of a drowned man going out to sea with the tide. They
picked the body up and laid it on the prow, the head resting upon the arm , and rowed on slowly to the hut. The little boy was watching for them , and went down to the edge of the canal to meet them . He saw the body of the seventh man lying on the prow , but thought that he was asleep. So, when the boat came near, he cried to his father , ” Breakfast is ready ; come along ! ” and with that he turned and went back to the hut. The men followed the boy, and left the dead man lying on the prow. When they had sat down the boy looked round and said , “Where is the other man ? Why don’t you bring him in to breakfast too ? “

“Oh ! isn’t he here ?’ cried one ; and then added , with a laugh , ” You had better go and call him ; he must be asleep.”

The boy went down to the canal , and shouted , ” Why don’t you come to breakfast ? it is all ready for you .” But the man on the prow never moved nor answered a word . So the boy returned to the hut, and said , “What is the matter with the man ? he won’t answer .”

” Oh ! ” said they, “he is a deaf old fool . You must shout and swear at him .”

The boy went back again , and cried , ” Come along , you fool ; the others are waiting for you .” But the man on the prow never moved nor answered a word . Then the boy ran back to the hut, and said , “ Come , one of you ; for I can’t wake him up.”

But they laughed , and answered , “Go out again and shake him by the leg ; tell him we can’t wait till doomsday for him.” The boy went down to the water once more . He got into the boat and shook the man by the leg .

Then the man turned and sat up on the prow, and said to the boy, ” What do you want ? “
” Why on earth don’t you come ? Are they all to wait till doomsday for you ? ”

” Go back and tell them that I am coming.” So the boy went back to the hut and found the men laughing and joking .

” Well ! what did he say ? ” they cried .

” It is all right,” answered the boy ; “he says he is coming .” The men turned pale and looked at one another , and sat quite still and laughed no more .

Then outside they heard footsteps coming slowly up the path . The door was pushed open , and the dead man came in and sat down in the boy’s place , the seventh at the table . But the eyes of the other six were fixed upon the seventh , their guest . They could not move nor speak. Their gaze was fastened on the dead man’s face . The blood flowed chiller and chiller in their veins till, as the sun arose , there were seven dead men sitting round the table in the room+.

The Cranes of Ibycus by Frederich Schiller

The Birds of Nephelococcygia were first described for Ars Magica in Realms of Power: Magic. They didn’t really get much use after this, but they’re an interesting group, because they offer a soft Titanomachy, without all of the destruction required of the Viktir version in Deis Irae.

These creatures are based on a play by Aristophanes, called “The Birds”. In this play the birds, who are, it turns out, descended of the Titans, lay siege to the gods by creating a flying city. This allows them to intercept prayers and sacrifices, so that the gods, starved, sue for peace. Prometheus, the remaining Titan, arrives under a parasol through which Zeus cannot see. He tells the leader of the humans, who have settled in the city, that the source of Zeus’s power is his mistress, the embodiment of Sovereignty. She’s given to the leader of the human as a queen, and he becomes the ruler of the world.

They turn up virtually nowhere else. I was reminded of them by this little poem by Friedrich Schiller, which is based on an ancient Greek story. The birds seem to answer a prayer, through a sort of Promethean trickery. Thanks to Alan Mapstone and his Librivox production team.

***

Once to the song and chariot-fight,
Where all the tribes of Greece unite
On Corinth’s isthmus joyously,
The god-loved Ibycus drew nigh.
On him Apollo had bestowed
The gift of song and strains inspired;
So, with light staff, he took his road
From Rhegium, by the godhead fired.

Acrocorinth, on mountain high,
Now burns upon the wanderer’s eye,
And he begins, with pious dread,
Poseidon’s grove of firs to tread.
Naught moves around him, save a swarm
Of cranes, who guide him on his way;
Who from far southern regions warm
Have hither come in squadron gray.

“Thou friendly band, all hail to thee!
Who led’st me safely o’er the sea!
I deem thee as a favoring sign,—
My destiny resembles thine.
Both come from a far distant coast,
Both pray for some kind sheltering place;—
Propitious toward us be the host
Who from the stranger wards disgrace!”

And on he hastes, in joyous wood,
And reaches soon the middle wood
When, on a narrow bridge, by force
Two murderers sudden bar his course.
He must prepare him for the fray,
But soon his wearied hand sinks low;
Inured the gentle lyre to play,
It ne’er has strung the deadly bow.

On gods and men for aid he cries,—
No savior to his prayer replies;
However far his voice he sends,
Naught living to his cry attends.
“And must I in a foreign land,
Unwept, deserted, perish here,
Falling beneath a murderous hand,
Where no avenger can appear?”

Deep-wounded, down he sinks at last,
When, lo! the cranes’ wings rustle past.
He hears,—though he no more can see,—
Their voices screaming fearfully.
“By you, ye cranes, that soar on high,
If not another voice is heard,
Be borne to heaven my murder-cry!”
He speaks, and dies, too, with the word.

The naked corpse, ere long, is found,
And, though defaced by many a wound,
His host in Corinth soon could tell
The features that he loved so well.
“And is it thus I find thee now,
Who hoped the pine’s victorious crown
To place upon the singer’s brow,
Illumined by his bright renown?”

The news is heard with grief by all
Met at Poseidon’s festival;
All Greece is conscious of the smart,
He leaves a void in every heart;
And to the Prytanis 33 swift hie
The people, and they urge him on
The dead man’s manes to pacify
And with the murderer’s blood atone.

But where’s the trace that from the throng
The people’s streaming crowds among,
Allured there by the sports so bright,
Can bring the villain back to light?
By craven robbers was he slain?
Or by some envious hidden foe?
That Helios only can explain,
Whose rays illume all things below.

Perchance, with shameless step and proud,
He threads e’en now the Grecian crowd—
Whilst vengeance follows in pursuit,
Gloats over his transgression’s fruit.
The very gods perchance he braves
Upon the threshold of their fane,—
Joins boldly in the human waves
That haste yon theatre to gain.

For there the Grecian tribes appear,
Fast pouring in from far and near;
On close-packed benches sit they there,—
The stage the weight can scarcely bear.
Like ocean-billows’ hollow roar,
The teaming crowds of living man
Toward the cerulean heavens upsoar,
In bow of ever-widening span.

Who knows the nation, who the name,
Of all who there together came?
From Theseus’ town, from Aulis’ strand
From Phocis, from the Spartan land,
From Asia’s distant coast, they wend,
From every island of the sea,
And from the stage they hear ascend
The chorus’s dread melody.

Who, sad and solemn, as of old,
With footsteps measured and controlled,
Advancing from the far background,
Circle the theatre’s wide round.
Thus, mortal women never move!
No mortal home to them gave birth!
Their giant-bodies tower above,
High o’er the puny sons of earth.

With loins in mantle black concealed,
Within their fleshless bands they wield
The torch, that with a dull red glows,—
While in their cheek no life-blood flows;
And where the hair is floating wide
And loving, round a mortal brow,
Here snakes and adders are descried,
Whose bellies swell with poison now.

And, standing in a fearful ring,
The dread and solemn chant they sing,
That through the bosom thrilling goes,
And round the sinner fetters throws.
Sense-robbing, of heart-maddening power,
The furies’ strains resound through air
The listener’s marrow they devour,—
The lyre can yield such numbers ne’er.

“Happy the man who, blemish-free,
Preserves a soul of purity!
Near him we ne’er avenging come,
He freely o’er life’s path may roam.
But woe to him who, hid from view,
Hath done the deed of murder base!
Upon his heels we close pursue,—
We, who belong to night’s dark race!”

“And if he thinks to ‘scape by flight,
Winged we appear, our snare of might
Around his flying feet to cast,
So that he needs must fall at last.
Thus we pursue him, tiring ne’er,—
Our wrath repentance cannot quell,—
On to the shadows, and e’en there
We leave him not in peace to dwell!”

Thus singing, they the dance resume,
And silence, like that of the tomb,
O’er the whole house lies heavily,
As if the deity were nigh.
And staid and solemn, as of old,
Circling the theatre’s wide round,
With footsteps measured and controlled,
They vanish in the far background.

Between deceit and truth each breast.
Now doubting hangs, by awe possessed,
And homage pays to that dread might,
That judges what is hid from sight,—
That, fathomless, inscrutable,
The gloomy skein of fate entwines,
That reads the bosom’s depths full well,
Yet flies away where sunlight shines.

When sudden, from the tier most high,
A voice is heard by all to cry:
“See there, see there, Timotheus!
Behold the cranes of Ibycus!”
The heavens become as black as night,
And o’er the theatre they see,
Far over-head, a dusky flight
Of cranes, approaching hastily.

“Of Ibycus!”—That name so blest
With new-born sorrow fills each breast.
As waves on waves in ocean rise,
From mouth to mouth it swiftly flies:
“Of Ibycus, whom we lament?
Who fell beneath the murderer’s hand?
What mean those words that from him went?
What means this cranes’ advancing band?”

And louder still become the cries,
And soon this thought foreboding flies
Through every heart, with speed of light—
“Observe in this the furies’ might!
The poets manes are now appeased
The murderer seeks his own arrest!
Let him who spoke the word be seized,
And him to whom it was addressed!”

That word he had no sooner spoke,
Than he its sound would fain invoke;
In vain! his mouth, with terror pale,
Tells of his guilt the fearful tale.
Before the judge they drag them now
The scene becomes the tribunal;
Their crimes the villains both avow,
When neath the vengeance-stroke they fall.

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Witch Stories: The Ghost and the Succubus

A couple of little stories from Linton. The creatures here are an infernal ghost and a succubus, both of which can be modelled using Realms of Power: Infernal. Thanks to the Librivox readers and production teams. Stats eventually.

THE GHOST OF THE BLACK-BROWED MAID

If bodies were safe after death, characters were not. Isabel Heriot was maid of all work to the minister at Preston. “She was of a low Stature, small and slender of Body, of a Black Complexion. Her Head stood somewhat awry upon her Neck. She was of a droll and jeering Humour, and would have spoken to Persons of Honour with great Confidence.” After some short time of service, her master the minister began to dislike her, because she was not eager in her religious duties; so he discharged her: and in 1680 she died—and “about the time of her death her face became extreamly black.” Two or three nights after her burial, one Isabel Murray saw her, in her white grave-clothes, walk from the chapel to the minister’s louping-on stone (horse-block). Here she halted, leaning her elbow on the stone, then went in at the back gate, and so towards the stable. A few nights after this stones were flung at the minister’s house, over the roof, and in at the doors and windows; but they fell softly for the most part, and did no especial damage. Yet one night, just as the minister was coming in at the hall door, a great stone was flung after him, which hit the door very smartly and marked it. Isabel Murray was also hit with stones, and the serving-man who looked to the horses was gripped at the heel by something which made him cry out lustily. So it went on. Stones and clods, and lighted coals, and even an old horse-comb long since lost, were perpetually flying about, and only by severe prayer was the minister able to lay the devil who molested them.

Soon Isabel Murray reappeared with a fresh set of circumstances concerning the ghost of her namesake Isabel Heriot, the maid of all work. She said that as she was coming from church between sermons, to visit her house and kailyard for fear some vagrant cows might have got over the dyke—which were very likely of the true Maclarty type—on going down her own yard, which was next to the minister’s, she saw again the apparition of Isabel Heriot, as she was when laid in her coffin. “Never was an egg liker to another than this Apparition was like to her, as to her Face, her Stature, her Motion, her Tongue, and Behaviour; her face was black like the mouten soot, the very colour which her face had when she died.” The ghost was walking under the fruit-trees, and over the beds where the seeds had been sown, bending her body downwards, as if she had been seeking somewhat off the ground, and saying, “A stane! a stane!” Her lap was full of stones; as some people supposed the stones she cast in the night-time; and these stones she threw down, as if to harbour them, at a bush-root in the garden. Isobel Murray, nothing daunted, goes up to her.

“Wow!” says she, “what’s thou doing here, Isabel Heriot? I charge thee by the law thou lives on to tell me.”

Says the ghost, “I am come again because I wronged my master when I was his servant. For it was I that stealed his Shekel (this was a Jewish shekel of gold which, with some other things, had been stolen from him several years before), which I hid under the Hearthstone in the Kitching, and then when I flited took it into the Cannongate, and did offer to sell it to a French Woman who lodged where I served, who askt where I got it. I told her I found it between Leith and Edinburgh.” Then she went on to make further confession. Having fyled herself for a thief she went on to show how she had been also a witch. “One night,” says the ghost, “I was riding home late from the Town, and near the Head of Fanside Brae, the Horse stumbled, and I said, The Devil raise thee; whereupon the Foul Thief appeared presently to me, and threatened me, if I would not grant to destroy my Master the Minister, he would throw me into a deep hole (which I suppose is yet remaining); or if I could not get power over my master, I should strive to destroy the Shoolmaster.”

“It was very remarkable,” says George Sinclair, as a kind of commentary, “that one of the minister’s servant-women had given to the schoolmaster’s servant-woman some Linnings to make clean, among which there was a Cross cloth of strong Linning, which could never be found, though diligent search was made for it, till one morning the Master awakening found it bound round about his Night Cap, which bred admiration both to himself and his Wife. No more skaith was the Devil or the Witches able to do him. What way this was done, or for what end it cannot be well known: but it is somewhat probable that they designed to strangle and destroy him in the night time, which is their usual time in working and doing of mischief. This happened about the time (I suppose) that the Devil had charged Isabel Heriot to destroy this honest man. Yet within two days a young child of his, of a year old, fell sick, which was quickly pulled away by death, none knowing the cause or nature of the disease.”

Isabel Murray went on to say, that furthermore the ghost confessed to her, that she, Isabel Heriot, when in life, had met the devil a second time at Elfiston Mill, near to Ormiston: and she told what foulness the devil did to her. Also, one night as she was coming home from Haddington Market with some horse-corn, she met the devil at Knock-hills, and he bade her destroy Thomas Anderson, who was riding with her. When she refused he threw all the horse-corn off the horse. “This Thomas Anderson was a Christian man,” and when Murray told her tale “well remembered that Isabel had got up the next morning timeously,” and brought home her oats which had lain in the road all the night. She said too that she had cheated her master whenever she went to the market to buy oats, charging him more than they cost—not an unusual practice with servants at market anywhere; and she told Isabel Murray that the stone cast at her was not for herself but for her goodman, who had once flung her, the ghost, into the jawhole, and abused her. At this point Murray said she began to be frightened, and ran home in all haste. So Isabel Heriot’s character was settled for ever, and her neighbours only thought the judgment came too late.

THE SUCCUBUS

William Barton, a loose-lived man of notoriously strong passions, was apprehended for witchcraft. His confession included the not very frequent Scottish element of a Succubus—a demon under the form of a beautiful woman who beguiled him, and to whom he made himself over for love and gold. She baptized him under the name of John Baptist, gave him her mark, and fifteen pounds Scots in good gold as Tocher-money; and then they parted. When he had gone but a little way she called him back and gave him a mark to spend at the Ferry, desiring him to keep the fifteen pounds safe and unbroken. At this point in his confession the poor wretch was weary, and asked leave to go to sleep; which, for a wonderful stretch of humanity, the judges granted. Suddenly he awakened with a loud laugh. The magistrates asked why he laughed?—and he said that during his sleep the devil had come to him, very angry at his confession, and bidding him deny all when he awoke, “for he should be his Warrand.” After this he became “obdured,” and would never confess anything again; the devil persuading him that no man should take his life. And even when they told him that the stake was set up and the fire built round, he only answered, “he cared not for all that, for,” said he, “I shal not die this day.” How should he if no man was to kill him? Upon this the executioner came into the prison, but fell stone dead as he crossed the threshold. Hastily the magistrates offered a reward to the executioner’s wife if she would undertake her husband’s office, and strangle the poor mad fellow before he was burnt; which she agreed to do, for all that she was in great pain and grief, clapping her hands and crying, “Dool for this parting my dear burd Andrew Martin!” When the warlock heard that a woman was to put him to death, he fell into a passion of crying, saying that the devil had deceived him, and “let no man ever trust his promises again!”

Barton’s wife was imprisoned with him. On her side she declared that she had never known her husband to be a warlock; he on his that he had never known her to be a witch: but presently the mask fell off, and she confessed. She said that malice against one of her neighbours had driven her to give herself over to the devil, that he had baptized her by the name of Margaratus, and taken her to be very near to him; a great deal too near for even a virtuous woman’s thoughts. When asked if she had found pleasure in his society, she answered, “Never much.” But one night, going to a witches’ dance upon Pentland Hills, he went before them all in the likeness of a rough tanny dog, playing on a pair of pipes. The spring he played, said she, was “The silly bit chicken, gar cast it a pickle, and it will grow mickle;” and coming down the hill they had the best sport of all: the devil carried the candle and his tail went, “ey wig wag, wig wag!” Margaratus was burnt with her husband.

Goethe: The Bride of Corinth

This is the first of a series of episodes based on ballads from Goethe. The poem given here is based on two ancient Greek stories. The story’s core is that of Machates and Philinnion from Phlegon’s “Book of Marvels”, but in that story the bride is not obviously a vampire. She’s a member of the ambulant dead but claims to have caused her lover no harm. The story has been crossed with Philostratus’s biography of Apollonius of Tyana. in which he defeats a blood-drinking empusa at a marriage feast. We’ve already covered a different approach to this story in an earlier episode. Keats, in his poem Lamia, has far more compassion for the dead girl.

The text needs a few clarifications. Hymen is the name of the god of marriage. The early church forbade cremation as a pagan practice. The Catholic position formally changed in 1963. It seems odd the bride cannot eat bread: this may be some sort of ward.

Thanks to Alan Mapstone and his Librivox production team. Statistics eventually.

***

I.

A YOUTH to Corinth , whilst the city slumber’d , 
Came from Athens : though a stranger there , 
Soon among its townsmen to be number’d , 
For a bride awaits him , young and fair : 
From their childhood’s years They were plighted feres ,
So contracted by their parents ‘ care .

II .

But may not his welcome there be hinder’d ?
Dearly must he buy it , would he speed.
He is still a heathen with his kindred,
She and hers wash’d in the Christian creed.
When new faiths are born,
Love and troth are torn
Rudely from the heart, howe’er it bleed .

III .

All the house is hush’d ; -to rest retreated
Father , daughters – not the mother quite ;
She the guest with cordial welcome greeted,
Led him to a room with tapers bright ;
Wine and food she brought ,
Ere of them he thought ,
Then departed with a fair good – night .

IV .

But he felt no hunger , and unheeded
Left the wine , and eager for the rest
Which his limbs , forspent with travel , needed,
On the couch he laid him , still undress’d.
There he sleeps – when lo !
Onwards gliding slow,
At the door appears a wondrous guest .

V.

By the waning lamp’s uncertain gleaming
There he sees a youthful maiden stand ,
Robed in white , of still and gentle seeming ,
On her brow black and golden band 
When she meets his eyes ,
With a quick surprise
Starting , she uplifts a pallid hand .

VI .

“Is a stranger here , and nothing told me ?
Am I then forgotten even in name ?
Ah ! ‘ tis thus within my cell they hold me ,
And I now am cover’d o’er with shame !
Pillow still thy head
There upon thy bed ,
I will leave thee quickly as I came . ”

VII .

” Maiden – darling ! Stay , O stay ! “
and , leaping From the couch , before her stands the boy :
” Ceres – Bacchus , here their gifts are heaping ,
And thou bringest Amor’s gentle joy !
Why with terror pale ?
Sweet one , let us hail
These bright gods – their festive gifts employ . “

VIII .

” Oh , no – no ! Young stranger , come not nigh me ;
Joy is not for me , nor festive cheer .
Ah ! such bliss may ne’er be tasted by me ,
Since my mother , in fantastic fear ,
By long sickness bow’d ,
To Heaven’s service vow’d
Me , and all the hopes that warm’d me here .

IX .

They have left our hearth , and left it lonely
— The old gods , that bright and jocund train .
One , unseen , in heaven , is worshipp’d only ,
And upon the cross a Saviour slain ;
Sacrifice is here ,
Not of lamb nor steer ,
But of human woe and human pain . “

X.

And he asks , and all her words doth ponder 
” Can it be , that , in this silent spot ,
I behold thee , thou surpassing wonder !
My sweet bride , so strangely to me brought ?
Be mine only now—
See , our parents ‘ vow
Heaven’s good blessing hath for us besought . “

XI .

” No ! thou gentle heart , ” she cried in anguish ; “
” Tis not mine , but ‘ tis my sister’s place ;
When in lonely cell I weep and languish ,
Think , oh think of me in her embrace !
I think but of thee
Pining drearily ,
Soon beneath the earth to hide my face ! “

XII .

Nay ! I swear by youder flame which burneth ,
Fann’d by Hymen, lost thou shalt not be ;
Droop not thus , for my sweet bride returneth
To my father’s mansion back with me !
Dearest tarry here !
Taste the bridal cheer ,
For our spousal spread so wondrously ! “

XIII .

Then with word and sign their troth they plighted ,
Golden was the chain she bade him wear ;
But the cup he offer’d her she slighted ,
Silver , wrought with cunning past compare .
” That is not for me ;
All I ask of thee
Is one little ringlet of thy hair . “

XIV .

Dully boom’d the midnight hour unhallow’d ,
And then first her eyes began to shine ;
Eagerly with pallid lips she swallow’d
Hasty draughts of purple – tinctured wine ;
But the wheaten bread ,
As in shuddering dread ,
Put she always by with loathing sign .

XV .

And she gave the youth the cup : he drain’d it ,
With impetuous haste he drain’d it dry ;
Love was in his fever’d heart , and pain’d it ,
Till it ached for joys she must deny .
But the maiden’s fears
Stay’d him , till in tears
On the bed he sank , with sobbing cry .

XVI .

And she leans above him- ” Dear one , still thee !
Ah , how sad am I to see thee so !
But , alas ! these limbs of mine would chill thee :
Love ! they mantle not with passion’s glow ;
Thou wouldst be afraid ,
Didst thou find the maid
Thou hast chosen , cold as ice snow . “

XVII .

Round her waist his eager arms he bended ,
With the strength that youth and love inspire ;
” Wert thou even from the grave ascended ,
I could warm thee well with my desire !
Panting kiss on kiss !
Overflow of bliss !
” Burn’st thou not , and feelest me on fire ? “

XVIII

Closer yet they cling , and intermingling ,
Tears and broken sobs proclaim the rest ;
His hot breath through all her frame is tingling ,
There they lie , caressing and caress’d .
His impassion’d mood
Warms her torpid blood ,
Yet there beats no heart within her breast !

XIX .

Meanwhile goes the mother , softly creeping ,
Through the house , on needful cares intent , 
Hears a murmur , and , while all are sleeping ,
Wonders at the sounds , and what they mean
Who was whispering so ? —
Voices soft and low ,
In mysterious converse strangely blent .

XX .

Straightway by the door herself she stations ,
There to be assur’d what was amiss ;
And she hears love’s fiery protestations ,
Words of ardour and endearing bliss :
” Hark , the cock ! ‘ Tis light !
But to – morrow night
Thou wilt come again ? ” — and kiss on kiss .

XXI .

Quick the latch she raises , and , with features
Anger – flush’d , into the chamber hies .
” Are there in my house such shameless creatures ,
Minions to the stranger’s will ? ” she cries .
By the dying light ,
Who is’t meets her sight ?
God ! ‘ tis her own daughter she espies !

XXII .

And the youth in terror sought to cover ,
With her own light veil , the maiden’s head ,
Clasp’d her close ; but , gliding from her lover ,
Back the vestment from her brow she spread ,
And her form upright ,
As with ghostly might ,
Long and slowly rises from the bed .

XXIII .

” Mother ! mother ! wherefore thus deprive me
Of such joy as I this night have known ?
Wherefore from these warm embraces drive me ?
Was I waken’d up to meet thy frown ?
Did it not suffice
That , in virgin guise ,
To an early grave you brought me down ?

XXIV .

” Fearful is the weird that forc’d me hither ,
From the dark – heap’d chamber where I lay ;
Powerless are your drowsy anthems ,
neither Can your priests prevail , howe’er they pray .
Salt nor lymph can cool ,
Where the pulse is full ;
Love must still burn on , though wrapp’d in clay .

XXV .

” To this youth my early troth was plighted ,
Whilst yet Venus ruled within the land ; 
Mother ! and that vow ye falsely slighted ,
At your new and gloomy faith’s command .
But no god will hear ,
If a mother swear
Pure from love to keep her daughter’s hand .

XXVI .

Nightly from my narrow chamber driven ,
Come I to fulfil my destin’d part ,
Him to seek to whom my troth was given ,
 And to draw the life – blood from his heart .
He hath served my will ;
More I yet must kill ,
For another prey I now depart .

XXVII .

” Fair young man ! thy thread of life is broken ,
Human skill can bring no aid to thee .
There thou hast my chain – a ghastly token
And this lock of thine I take with me .
Soon must thou decay ,
Soon wilt thou be grey ,
Dark although to -night thy tresses be !

XXVIII .

” Mother ! hear , oh hear my last entreaty !
Let the funeral – pile arise once more ;
Open up my wretched tomb for pity ,
And in flames our souls to peace restore .
When the ashes glow ,
When the fire-sparks flow ,
To the ancient gods aloft we soar . “

“The Gold Bread” by Edouard R. L. Laboulaye

This time a story of (arguably not) dwarves from The Transylvanian Tribunal. The reading you’re about to hear is from LibriVox by J GO. Thank you for the recording. It was written by Edouard Laboulaye whose work isn’t seen a lot in English. On the off chance that some of the American listeners are going “Wait a minute? “Where do I know that name from?” he was the guy who said “How about we all chip in and buy the Americans a huge statue that they can put in one of their harbours?”

***

Once upon a time a widow with her beautiful daughter lived on the edge of a tiny village. The mother was modest and humble; the daughter, Marienka, was pride itself. She had suitors from all sides, but none satisfied her; the more they tried to please her, the more she disdained them.

One night, when the poor mother could not sleep, she began to pray for her dear child, who gave her more than one care. Marienka was asleep by her side. As the mother gazed lovingly at her beautiful daughter, Marienka laughed in her sleep.

“What a beautiful dream she must have, to laugh in this way!” said the mother. Then she finished her prayer, laid her head on her pillow and fell asleep. “My dear child,” said she in the morning, “what did you dream last night that you laughed so?”

“What did I dream, mamma? I dreamed that a nobleman came here for me in a copper coach, and that he put a ring on my finger set with a stone that sparkled like the stars. And when I entered the church, the people paused in their worship and had eyes for no one but me.”

“My daughter, my daughter, that was a proud dream!” said the mother, shaking her head. But Marienka went out singing.

The same day a wagon entered the yard. A handsome young farmer in good circumstances came to ask Marienka to share peasant’s bread with him. The mother was pleased with the suitor, but the proud Marienka refused him, saying, “Though you should come in a copper coach, and put a ring on my finger set with a stone that sparkled like the stars, I would not have you for a husband.” And the farmer went away storming at Marienka’s pride.

The next night the mother waked, and prayed still more earnestly for her daughter, when behold! Marienka laughed again as she was sleeping. “I wonder what she is dreaming,” said the mother, who prayed, unable to sleep. “My dear child,” she said the next morning, “what did you dream last night that you laughed aloud?”

“What did I dream, mamma? I dreamed that a nobleman came here for me in a silver coach, and that he offered me a golden diadem. And when I entered the church, the people stopped their worship and looked only at me.”

“Hush! you are blaspheming. Pray, my daughter, pray that you may not fall into temptation.”

But Marienka ran away to escape her mother’s sermon.

The same day a carriage entered the yard. A young lord came to entreat Marienka to share a nobleman’s bread with him. “It is a great honor,” said the mother; but vanity is blind.

“Though you should come in a silver coach,” said Marienka to the new suitor, “and should offer me a golden diadem, I would not have you for a husband.”

“Take care, my child,” said the poor mother; “pride is a device of the Evil One. Consider what. you are saying.”

“Mothers never know what they are saying,” thought Marienka, and she went out shrugging her shoulders.

The third night the mother could not sleep for anxiety. As she lay awake, praying for her daughter, behold! Marienka burst into a loud fit of laughter. “Oh!” said the mother, “what can the unhappy child be dreaming now?” And she continued to pray till daylight. “My dear child,” said she in the morning, “what did you dream last night?”

“You will be angry again if I tell you,” answered Marienka.

“No, no,” replied the mother. “Tell me.”

“T dreamed that a noble lord, with a great train of attendants, came to ask me in marriage. He was in a golden coach, and be brought me a dress of gold lace. And when I entered the church, the people looked at nobody but me.” The mother clasped her hands. Marienka, half dressed sprang from the bed and ran into the next room, to avoid a lecture that was tiresome to her.

The same day three coaches entered the yard, one of copper, one of silver, and one of gold; the first drawn by two horses, the second by four, and the third by eight, all caparisoned with gold and pearls. From the copper and silver coaches alighted pages dressed in scarlet breeches and green jackets and cloaks, while from the golden coach stepped a handsome nobleman all dressed in gold. He entered the house, and, bending one knee on the ground, asked the mother for her daughter’s hand. “What an honor!” thought the mother.

“My dream has come to pass,” said Marienka. “You see mother, that, as usual, I was right and you were wrong.”

She ran to her chamber, tied the betrothal knot, and offered it smilingly as a pledge of her faith to the handsome lord, who, on his side, put a ring on her finger set with a stone that sparkled like the stars, and presented her with a golden diadem and a dress of gold lace.

The proud girl ran to her room to dress for the ceremony. while the mother, still anxious, said to the bridegroom, “My good sir, what bread do you offer my daughter?”

“Among us,” said he, “the bread is of copper, silver, and gold; she can take her choice.”

“What does this mean?” thought the mother. But Marienka had no anxiety; she returned as beautiful as the sun, took her lover’s arm, and set out for the church without asking her mother’s blessing. The poor woman was left to pray alone on the threshold; and when Marienka returned and entered the carriage, she did not even turn round to look at her mother or
to bid her a last farewell.

The eight horses set off at a gallop, and did not stop till they reached a huge rock, in which there was a hole as large as the gate of a city. The horses plunged into the darkness, the earth
trembled, and the rock cracked and crumbled. Marienka seized her husband’s hand. “Don’t be alarmed, my fair one; in a moment it will be light.”

All at once a thousand lights waved in the air. The dwarfs of the mountain, each with a torch in his hand, came to salute their lord, the King of the Mines. Marienka learned for the first time her husband’s name. Whether he was a spirit of good or of evil, she thought, at least he was so rich that she did not regret her choice.

They emerged from the darkness, and advanced through bleached forest and mountains that raised their pale and gloomy summits to the skies. Firs, beeches, birches, oaks, rocks, all were of lead. At the end of the forest stretched a vast meadow, the grass of which was of silver; and at the bottom of the meadow was a castle of gold, inlaid with diamonds and rubies. The carriage stopped before the door, and the King of the Mines offered his hand to his bride, saying, “My fair one, all that you see in this country is yours.”

Marienka was delighted. But it is impossible to make so long a journey without being hungry; and it was with pleasure, therefore, that she saw the mountain dwarfs bring in a table, every thing on which glittered with gold, silver, and precious stones. The dishes were marvellous —side dishes of emeralds, and roasts of gold on silver salvers. Everyone ate heartily except the bride, who begged her husband for a little bread.

“Bring the copper bread,” said the King of the Mines.

Marienka could not eat it.

“Bring the silver bread,” said he.

Marienka could not eat it.

“Bring the gold bread,” said he, at length.

Marienka could not eat it.

“My fair one,” said the King of the Mines, “I am very sorry; but what can I offer you? We have no other bread.”

The bride burst into tears. Her husband laughed aloud! his heart was of metal, like his kingdom.

“Weep, if you like,” he cried; “it will do you no good. What you wished for you possess. Eat the bread that you have chosen.”

It was thus that the rich Marienka lived in her castle, starving, always hungry, and seeking in vain for roots to allay the torture that was consuming her. God had humbled her by granting her prayer.

Three days in the year, the Rogation Days, when the people pray for the fruitful rain sent by the Lord, Marienka returns to the earth. Dressed in rags, pale and wrinkled, she begs from door to door, too happy when anyone throws her a few crusts, and when she receives as alms from the poor what she lacks in her palace of gold—a little bread and a little pity.

Some day she may win pardon and come back to live her life like the other peasants who work for the bread they eat.