A Wintervale Tale

         “Happy Wintervale, Zara!” A shock of blond hair with blue sparkling eyes peered into the threshold from the cold, snow-covered street. He held a neatly wrapped bundle toward his neighbor as he welcomed himself in.

         “Thanks Bartol,” she sighed. He was much younger than her age of fifteen but had held a crush on her for as long as they knew each other. “Please do treat yourself to some cookies and honey cider,” she added. But it was too late; he had finished his first mug and accepted her offer as permission that he could have another. “Why bother?” She closed the door and made her way to the dining table to open her gift.

         As Bartol sat munching away, washing his bites down with the spiced honey drink, Zara took her chance to open the parcel. It was a cylindrical package clad in Wintervale-green. The wrapping, upon unraveling, revealed a parchment bound in leather string. She untied the tassels and it sprung open in her hands. A flash of surprise spread across Zara's face; the script was fantastically written, as though a professional had fulfilled Bartol's order.

         “I've written a good one for you this year my dear!” His endearing terms sounded too mature for his age of twelve. She glanced to her young gentleman caller as he flashed a smile laced with half-chewed chunks of cookie in his mouth. Zara was glad that her parents weren't there to enforce a more jolly demeanor and she closed her eyes, shaking her head. Once the rude image was washed from her mind she turned back to the scroll and began to read.

         Bartol had always given Zara a gift at Wintervale. At first they were crude pictures or misspelled limericks. After he had learned his letters, he graduated to simple poetry or prose that detailed her stature as the most kind and beautiful young lady in Brumtonville. By the guiding virtue of her parents, Zara was taught to respect the young lad and to treat him to some snack or a warm drink whenever he called. Now reading the newest poem, she had not noticed her mouth slowly gaping in pleasant surprise. He was truly a great wordsmith in the making, as any man who endlessly dotes upon his beloved through writing. Even though he was merely a boy, she found herself holding in a fanciful giggle. Just at that moment Zara's mother and father came bustling in from the cold.

         “My dear, here we find you reading when the kitchen should be prepared for the...,” Zara's father corrected his frown as he spotted Bartol grinning behind his mug of cider. “I say! If it isn't young master Bartolamus!” He always enjoyed having the boy over for company. Ever vigilant for a future husband for his daughter, it was never too early to consider a boy so charming and in love with his daughter, especially one young enough to be molded a bit. “A happy Wintervale to you my lad, and I see Zara has set you up well.”

         “Indeed sire,” as Bartol always addressed her father, “but I must be off. I only came to deliver my gift. Perhaps I may visit after my family's celebration tomorrow night.”

         “We look forward to seeing you again. Now bundle up, it's quite cold out this afternoon!” Her mother helped him into his hooded coat and saw him off as Zara and her Father began preparing their family's Wintervale dinner. Within a matter of hours, their home would be inundated with aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, all full of joy and festivity. For now, Bartol's poem was rolled up and placed in a leather pouch with the rest of his artwork and writing.



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         So it was that Wintervale came and went; festivities were had by all the families in Brumtonville. Every boy and girl was busy playing and showing off their gifts. Thus it was no surprise when Bartol did not visit on Wintervale Day. “He must have had something wonderful to share with the gang,” Zara thought, in reference to the neighborhood boys. In fact, it would be a week at least before she would from her admirer, and so sparing her from his endless wooing for now.

         A faint scratching could be heard against the window while Zara slept peacefully. It was before sunrise and the household was still at rest. The scratches turned to sharp taps, increasing in volume until the girl's slumber broke. In a flash she was pulling the window open and in crawled a shivering mess of a boy.

         "What in the name of the high lord are you doing here...,” rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she realized that he was completely naked. “My word! Quick! Come with me.” She yanked the down blanket from her bed and draped it around the trembling lad, then led him to the great room. Coals from the last evening's fire barely held a glow, but with a prod from the poker they crackled and popped. She sat Bartol down in front of the hearth while she kindled a fire. At last, flames were roaring and Zara retired to a large chair near the fireplace, watching the quivering pile finally come to a rest.

         “I'm doomed.” It had seemed like hours had passed when Bartol finally spoke. “The people of Brumtonville have it in for me!” He began bumbling as tears hastened down his cheeks.

         “What prank did you pull this time? It better be good!”

         “If only it were a trick on the baker, or Mr. Kolm on the square, or...,” he faltered once more, staring into the flames while moaning.

         “Just keep it down, will you? You don't want my father to join the ranks of the angered, do you?”

         At the mention of her father he stood up under the blanket. “You can't tell your folks that I've been here. They'll turn me in to my parents; they know!”

         “They know what? You are acting strangely Bartolamus!”

         “This!” He thrust his right arm out of his warm bundle, palm opened fully, as Zara leapt backward half expecting a handful of worms, a dead spider or some other trickery. Seeing no ruse, she gathered herself and came close again to inspect his hand. There was a curving shape like a farmer's brand, blackened and painful to bear.

         “How'd you get this?”

         “It was the worst Wintervale gift ever!” Recoiling his arm, he plopped down in front of the fire again, facing Zara's seat. “I was playing down by Eggerby's Creek with the gang: Tarold and Withers. Hide and seek it was, and I was the seeker. But this woman came along smiling at me; I felt like I knew her.”

         At the mention of Eggerby's Creek, Zara shivered. Childhood tales of a wandering witch began to surface in her mind.

         “She told me she had a gift for me, and handed me a fancy box. I took it without even thinking - how stupid! Inside was a golden ball etched with strange designs. When I looked up the woman was gone, and just in time for Tarold and Withers to have given up and come looking for me. I tried to hide the ball in my pocket, but when I clutched it the thing bit me! - or burned me rather. I dropped it on the ground while I favored the sting and it rolled there in the open. Withers picked it up but it was no longer a ball of gold, just an old pine cone!”

         “That doesn't explain why you're running about with no clothes.”

         “I'm getting to it! Ever since that golden ball left this mark I haven't been myself, not at all. I'm changing, Zara, into something hideous. I can't go home until I find a cure. I must return to Eggerby's Creek and find that woman!”

         Just then a creaking and grumbling could be heard from another room. “Father! Quick, you must leave! I'm sure your parents are worried sick about you!” But Bartol was already clutching onto Zara, bawling again.

         “No!” He muffled himself while sobbing, “No, if my parents find me, they'll have me sent to the dungeons! Don't tell your father! I'll hide under your bed, in your wardrobe, anywhere!”

         With her father's rise imminent she sighed, “Fine, get in here.” She rushed Bartol into her bedroom as quietly as possible.



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         Zara spent that day doing extra chores as punishment for leaving a fire unattended. She blamed it on her desire to read the book her aunt had given her at Wintervale, so her parents were a bit more forgiving. In spare moments she sneaked food to her guest as he laid still underneath her bed. Finally after dinner was had and her parents retired to their bedroom, she took one last snack to Bartol. But to her surprise he was not in his hiding place. Looking here and there, she finally sensed the chilly breeze coming from her open window.

         “Not again!” She ran and stuck her head out, looking right, then left: nothing. Then she heard a familiar whimper below. “Get in here! Are you crazy?” Zara reached down to grab his arm but was startled as her fingers touched course fur instead of skin. Then a creature stood and turned to face Zara. A scream pierced the air, but was quickly muffled by a white, hairy hand.

         “Shh!” the creature beckoned with a growl. Showing Zara the palm of his right hand while pointing to himself with the left, he grumbled aloud, "Bahh...Toll."Glancing first at the marking on the hand then at the hideous face, she beheld the gaze of blue, boyish eyes.

         “Quick Mum! Get my ax, there's an intruder!” Zara's father stood in the threshold as he called frantically to the other room.

         “No, father, it's just...,” she yelped as the beast hoisted her up and out through the window. He carried her in hulking arms through the falling snow.

         “What are you doing, Bartol! Let me down!” Her pleas were useless; he was now under an animal influence – fight or flight. Soon the evening streets were filling with clamor and alarm, word was spreading that a beast had stolen a daughter of Brumtonville. But Bartol was bent on one task and so he darted through the snow, dodging street lanterns and the angry voices. Finally they stopped by a window at the back of a house. Reaching in with one free hand, a confused and flailing Zara in the other, he fumbled around in search of something.

         “I said, put me down! I'm not going to run, just tell me where we're going!”

         At her words he stood her on the snow-covered cobbles of the street and handed her a pair of boots, a warm waste coat and a hooded cloak. “Egg...Uhh...Beez.” he managed in a throaty growl. Zara took his cue and quickly put on the items.

         “Eggerby's Creek...but why...,” and then she remembered. “The witch of the woods! You're going to look for her?” But there was no time to waste; a metallic cry fill the air around them. “The town bell, we need to go now!” Hand in hairy hand, the pair raced out into the darkness of the woods.



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         The snow had been falling steadily that evening and a sharp chill hung in the air. Occasionally they stopped to look back, certain of a distant search party. Bartol's footprints were massive and his stride made deep cuts in the drifts. If anyone was looking for them it wouldn't be a difficult task.

         Finally they reached the spot where Bartol took the golden ball and it's cursed mark. “Where can she be," Zara wondered. "It's not like she'll be waiting for us to say 'Here we are!'” But Bartol, undeterred, let loose a howl that echoed in the valley as the trees stood watchfully in the falling snow. Beast and girl stood glancing here and there, waiting for something to happen. Then the snow seemed to cease and they thought they could see a sparkle of light making its way to them from deep in the woods. Voices could be heard as well, but coming from the opposite direction. Turning, the duo could see torchlight and the illuminated faces of men.

         “They've come!” Zara gripped Bartol's furry arm. Remembering the glow from the forest, she turned to look for it but it was no longer shining. Afraid and confused, she turned to the approaching mob. Now their weapons shimmered, reflecting the flames that the villagers bore. Bartol breathed a growl. In seconds their eyes could be easily seen; there was nowhere to run.

         “She's still alive! We're going to skin that beast! No thing takes a child from our village and lives!” The muddle of threats seared Zara's mind. They knew not that the monster was one of their own children. At once, she could see her father elbowing his way to the front of the pack.

         “My daughter, come quickly while you still stand!”

         Zara desired nothing more than for this moment to be over, but she couldn't abandon Bartol to the boiling mob. She hadn't noticed herself stepping away from her friend until he sighed a whining purr. Turning to him, his blue eyes glittering in the light of the flames; still the eyes of a youngster. Despite his enormous, mutated size, he was just a frightened boy inside. She reached out to comfort him and he moved to take her hand into his. Immediately he pulled back, letting out an agonizing blast of beastly voice. Zara stumbled away from him and saw that an arrow now protruded from his shoulder. Terrified for Bartol's life, she sprang to him as he began to cower from the archer's blow.

         Without experience in his animal form he could muster no defense against the men as they began to encircle them. Just as their attack began to unfurl a clap of thunder rang throughout the valley. Zara buried her face near Bartol's and awaited the worst. The echoes died down among the trees, giving way to the thudding of human bodies collapsing in the snow. Uncovering an eye, she looked upon the circle of men, their torches smoldering on the ground, their bodies laying in peace. Her father too lay with eyes closed, breathing the deep air of slumber. A warm hand laid on Zara's shoulder brought her back into the present.

         “You!” She stood now, staring at a fair woman who smiled in the cold and dark.”You did this to Bartol?”

         “Patience my dear.” The witch stood tall over the two of them, Bartol still moaning in pain and Zara now stepping back from her. “Yes, it was I, Malfa, who has given this young lad the gift of beastly form. But I do not do so unwarranted. You see, you are too young to know the history between me and the men of your village,” she paused in brief thought, “Brumtonville you call it? My revenge has been crafted for seven years ere I laid my claim on this boy.”

         “But why him...and my father!” She stammered as a thousand thoughts raced through her mind.

         “My dear girl, this boy...this beast is but a replacement for the one the villagers took from me. Not out of necessity did they hunt down my previous servant, but in fear of the unknown! As for your father, he was there on that fateful day when I proclaimed my curse of revenge, that I would claim one of their own in due time.”

         “But he's my friend!” She felt odd saying that about the boy she had wished to be rid of on so many past occasions. “My friend, Bartol, why?”

         “He was willing to accept my gift on the destined day and he will serve me for the remainder of his life. And now it is time for your people to return to your village and forget about this dreadful night!” With a wave of her hand the air began to stir. The sleeping mob began to rise up and collect their things, trudging away in swaying fashion. “Go back to your beds and tell all who question the events of this eve that it was just a dream!”

         The Witch now turned to Bartol and grasped the arrow that still jabbed into this flesh. A soft glow enveloped the barb and soon it slipped out of the opening like an exhalation, followed by a painful yelp from Bartol's lips. All this Zara watched, unable to grasp the reality of the situation.

         “As for you, it's time to follow your people and forget about this night. Leave your friend behind; he belongs to me now.”

         “But, but...,” her thoughts could not materialize. She wanted to know that her young gentleman caller would be safe. She yearned to know that she could see him again one day. Soon her mind teetered on the edge of consciousness as a drowsy shroud fell upon her. Like the men of Brumtonville, she staggered away in the darkness of a dream.



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         Zara sat thumbing through Bartol's old poetry and sketches and wondered what in the world had happened to him. None had seen him since the cold season three years past but every Wintervale would hearken a great desire for the young lady to look back upon the tokens of Bartol's adoration. In a thoughtful mood she now sat curled in the chair next to her fireplace paging through her friend's works, wondering if ever she would read another one from her lost author. A knock came suddenly at the door.

         A cylindrical bundle, wrapped in familiar fashion, was placed at the doorstep with a tag hanging by a leather lace. Holding it closely, she saw that the label had the words, “To the Lady Zara,” written on one side. Turning it over, there was only “B.”