Somewhere in northeast Brein Amon is the village of Pringsley. Farmland surrounded by woods, the villagers lived off the land, encircled by wards to keep the demons away. The butcher handled the meat the herder brought in. The baker traded bread for the wheat from the miller who earned it from the farmer. And the lowly woodcutter’s daughter walked the skirts of the demon-infested woods to collect stray branches blown off by the storms to sell in the village. Of all the jobs, no one wanted to be the woodcutter’s daughter.

The woodcutter’s daughter lived alone with her grandmother in a log cabin on the edge of the woods, their hanging demon wards chirring on the wind as it blew past. The woodcutter had died the year before during the heavy snow. His wife had died in childbirth. And since her grandmother was old and decrepit, unable to walk more than five steps at a time, the woodcutter’s daughter had to do most of the labor around the house.

In the mornings, the woodcutter’s daughter walked into town to get milk and eggs for her grandmother, listing to the chirr-chirr of the demon wards stirring in the air. Then she would return and bake small wheat cakes, setting aside six for her grandmother, eating three for breakfast and saving three for lunch later, wrapping them in her handkerchiefs, as the wind stirred up a chir-chir from their demon ward. Then, pulling on her apron, she would get her father’s axe and head for the door. But before she would go, she would kiss her grandmother on the cheek and say, “Wait for me. If I do not come back by sunset, believe a demon has found me. And mourn me.”

Her grandmother would nod, then slip off her neck a golden chain she always wore that had two bells on it, one bell at the throat where it noosed, and the other dangling down with a small tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. And she would say, “May the four winds protect you.”

Everyday the woodcutter’s daughter did this, taking her father’s axe and his small wood cart to the edge of the nearest woods where she would gather wood, chopping fallen branches into smaller logs listening to the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of her little bells, then return as the sun fell, calling out to her grandmother: “I am home. All is well for another day.” Then she would make dinner from chicken or dried ham, listening to the chir-chir on the evening breeze.

It was not happy life, but the woodcutter’s daughter was contented. Occasionally the villagers would mock her, listening to the bell tinkle-tinkle-tinkle as she walked, calling out: “Where are you going, demon fodder? No one will marry a woodcutter’s daughter!”

She paid them no mind.

But one day the woodcutter’s daughter found that the stray wood was becoming scarce on the fringes of the forest. There was wood further in, but that meant she might face a demon that would undoubtedly eat her. But looking at their food stores, knowing it was worse to starve, the woodcutter’s daughter picked up the axe with resignation, kissed her grandmother goodbye and said as usual, “Wait for me. If I do not come back by sunset, believe a demon has found me. And mourn me.”

Her grandmother held her a little tighter as she slipped the golden chain with bells around the girl’s neck, and said, “Never take this chain off, my dear. May the four winds protect you.”

Nodding to her grandmother, the woodcutter’s daughter went out, took the axe and her father’s small wood cart to the edge of the nearest wood. Then she drew in a breath and pushed in further, all the while listening to the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the bells.

The woodcutter’s daughter stopped far enough in that she could still see the light from the open field. Immediately she went to work gathering sticks and logs, chopping, chopping, chopping with an echo against the trees as her bells went tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle.

That’s what drew it in. That was what brought the far-hearing demon to her. A gole.

The woodcutter’s daughter heard it walk up close on fast feet. She saw it out of the corner of her eye, and she knew she would never be able to outrun it, so she continued to do her work, chopping and lifting and setting the wood into the cart. This gole had a particularly large hinge-jaw, and thicker than thick, leathery skin that wrinkled in fat folds all over its giant legs, long dragging arms, and broad chest and back. It was impervious to spears, swords and axes. And like all goles, it wore human skin over itself, stitched together with human hair. It tilted its head, peering out with its black beady eyes at the woodcutter’s daughter, and said with its sticky sweet voice meant to lure her in, “Hello my precious morsel, are you ready for lunch?”

But hearing the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle in her ears, the woodcutter’s daughter was not charmed. She lifted her head, blinked once at the enormous man-eating demon and replied, “No, sir. I have a few more hours of work before lunch.”

The gole stared at her, surprised his words did not tempt her. He took a step forward. “Will you run?”

The woodutter’s daughter knew she could not ever outrun a gole. They were faster on two legs than even a horse, and their appetite never was sated. Resigned to her fate, the woodcutter’s daughter replied, “No, sir. I have a few more hours of work to do. If you will excuse me.”

And she went back to work, all the while her bell going tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle.

The gole clenched his sharp, many layers of teeth, and now said with bite, “What is that atrocious sound?”

Looking up again, the woodcutter’s daughter replied, “What sound, sir?”

Her bell went tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, as she continued to chop.

Growling it out now, the gole said, “That sound! That bell!”

Blinking, the woodcutter’s daughter reached into her blouse and pulled out the gold chain, lifting up the bell. “This? Oh, it is a gift from my grandmother.”

“Take it off!” the gole shouted, his steamy breath gusting over her with the odor of rotted meat.

The woodcutter’s daughter shook her head. “I cannot.”

“Take it off!” the gole shouted again, reaching for her.

The woodcutter’s daughter did not retreat. “I cannot. I swore never to. Even if I die.”

Growling, the gole grabbed the chain to take it off her himself. But the moment the gole touched the chain, he fell to the ground, the weight of it too heavy for him. It went tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” He dropped the chain, pulling his hand back as if he had been burned. With glowing beady eyes, he stared at her! “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

The woodcutter’s daughter, held the bell in her hands then let it go, it swaying on the wind, going tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle.

“I do not have that power,” she said.

“Make it stop!” the gole shouted. “It making my head hurt!”

The woodcutter’s daughter took a step back and sat on a fallen log, watching him as her bells went tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. She said, “Whenever my grandmother’s head hurts, I sing her a song. Should I sing one for you?”

The gole clenched his head between his hands, swaying with pain as the bells tinkled. “Anything! Anything! Make it stop!”

So the wood cutter’s daughter closed her eyes and began the song:

“The northern wind blows cool on the air
The eastern seas hush all your care
The southern warmth sun sets down to rest
The western dreams draw in your breast

This is my wish for you to keep
Go to sleep
Go to…”

The woodcutter’s daughter lightly snapped her fingers. “Sleep”

The gole lay down almost automatically, closing his eyes and resting his hands on his chest as his thick skin rolled back, exposing his tender, tender neck. The woodcutter’s daughter clenched the bells in her hand, keeping them quite still. She lifted up the axe. Tucking the bells into her blouse, she then brought the axe down with full force.

The demon twitched only once. Then it was dead.

The woodcutter’s daughter took up the head, wrapped it in her apron then set it into the wood cart. Then she went back to gathering her wood, chop, chop, chopping while her bells went, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle. Before the sun set, the woodcutter’s daughter walked out of the wood, carrying back the fullest load in a long time of the finest logs. She took them immediately into the village to sell, leaving the gole’s head at the village patriarch’s home, the bells going tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle as she walked. The villagers stared, no one ever saying anything ill about the woodcutter’s daughter again, as long as air chir-chir-chirred.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 19.11.2009

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