Fairy Tales Can't Hurt You

         Once upon a time, a wicked hag lived in the mountains. A cave opening, draped by fragrant mosses and vines, shields her from the biting cold. She creeps around her space as long and pointed fingernails scratch the stone when she moves. A crown of grape vines, dried and woven, sits atop her head as thin black hair frames her face, which is illuminated by a glowing light that follows the witch closely. Pale white skin glistens in the light as she begins mashing away at a mortar.

         Many years later, a village had been built and was growing slowly, but surely. Through hard work and dedication, houses were built and families survived. Winters among the rugged rock and pointed peaks were cold and unforgiving. Wild game became harder to find, leaving the people to rely on what little crops they stored for the season. Often they would migrate into the valley of the mountains before the cold came, where a second village stood, empty and waiting.

         The hag, knowing of this movement, would often search the abandoned houses. Some food remained, and tools, trinkets and equipment laid about the village. This bounty, however, was not known only to her, but to two other hags that reside around the area. Instead of deadly conflict between them, likely destroying the very thing they’re fighting for, she proposed a deal; they would share in the pilfering, putting the group’s survival above their own. The other hags accepted begrudgingly, honing their magic and growing in influence, forming a coven.

         When the villagers returned home in the spring, they resumed life in the small mountain valley. A man lived in this village with his wife, in a small house with a small plot of land. This family, the Kosks, were looked down upon in this village. The wife was unable to bear children, and he drowned his sorrow in ale. In the tavern he had heard whispers and tales, passed down from storytelling elders, of a hag, deep in the mountains, that would give a wish away to anyone foolish enough to seek them out. Bundled in his warmest coat, he left the village with his wife begging him not to go.

         After three days and two nights' travel, on the evening of the third day, he spotted a faint glow in the distance. He began to travel faster, stumbling exhaustedly over outcropped rocks and loose stones. As the day faded, light extended from the cave entrance, peeking through the wall of vines, as he came to a run. His feet slapped against the cold stone, sweat poured down his face and his breath came in anxious, short bursts. He threw open the vines, letting a wave of noxious fumes into the fresh evening air.

         At once all three hags whip around, surprise painted across their wrinkled faces. One of them hissed and drew an arm back as lightning danced from her sharp nails. Another one jumped back, further into the cave. The last, seemingly recovered from her momentary shock, raised a hand to the other, muttering something before the lightning dissipated. She approached the man and beaconed him into the dank cavern chamber.

         At once she spun around and eyed the man, “You have bravery to approach us here in our mountain home, overlooking your village.” He shifted nervously in place, not daring to move. She smiled as green eyes pierced his very soul.

         “Your wife,” mused the hag, tapping her long index finger against her chin, “I could bestow upon her a child, yes, but for this there would be a price.”

         The desperate man pleaded, “Anything for this, I would do. I beg of you, just make it so.” The hag thus began her incantation.

         “The price for this life you desire, a life that fate itself desires not to be brought into this world...” her arms traced nonsensical symbols and her fingers twisted into impossible positions. “You will know this price, foolish man, in due time; you will have your child.” A sense of dread overcame the man, regret filling his mind and soul, as he ran from the hag. A loud, spiteful cackle erupted from her as he ran. Her harrowing words echoing inside his head, “And I will have your child too.”


* * *


         Soon, in nine months time, young Griselda Kosk was born. During the process, however, a mixture of the winter’s cold and blood loss overtook her mother, dying in the process. The new father looked to the forest mournfully, knowing this was the hag’s price. She had been born healthy, but with small, black extrusions on each side of her head.

         As a child, she was quiet and skittish, running away if anyone came close. She would lash out and scream when upset, and especially upon touch. Since her birth, harsher winters had beset the valley. The migratory trail leading out of the valley had suffered a massive rockfall, trapping the villagers in the valley. Everyone looked at her and her father with disgust and hatred, knowing of her conception and his betrayal. After ten more years of this treatment her father eventually left the village, never to be seen again, leaving Griselda to fend for herself.

         The villagers took this as an opportunity to get rid of the cursed child. They rallied and dragged her out of her home, torches and pitchforks at the ready. They burned the house, and turned on her. A large man with a pitchfork stepped up and struck out at the girl. The pitchfork clattered to the ground as a gaping hole sits where his heart once was. The villagers backed up, horrified and shocked, as his lifeless body crumpled to the snowy ground.

         Griselda smiled an evil and wicked grin, and stood up. A black, shadowy mist began to pour from her clothing as a sickening purple flame rose from beneath the mob. Screams of pain and agony fill the night sky, releasing years of rage and anger upon these people. A look of pure joy and pleasure crossed her face and a demented laughter sprang from her throat. A young man, not older than thirteen or fourteen, stood further behind the mob.

         She walked forward, toward him. The last screams of his people fell on deaf ears. His feet were locked in place, the fear poured from his eyes. The pitchfork in his hands was gripped by white knuckles. Her form began twitching and convulsing, a thin shadowy veil covering her visage, as it shifted from one shape to another. Her body, now dressed in farmer’s rags and worn boots, had short brown hair and blue eyes. He watched in horror as she walked forward, toward him. Like him. Finally gathering his wits, he hurled the pitchfork in her direction and ran. She watched as he fled his village, a hopeless, helpless boy, without ever looking back.

         The village in the mountains, being their final resting place, and the village in the valley now both sit abandoned and crumbling. Griselda had moved on, traveling southward from the mountains, before coming across a trade caravan resting from the day’s travels. She stalked further up the path and, at dawn just before the caravan continued on, she laid herself out across the road. The kind people picked her up and nursed her back to health, offering warm clothing, food and shelter.


* * *


         The caravan, she learned, was headed to Nali, the largest city of the Greater Valley. A large river flows from the mountain, fueled in the spring and summer by snowmelt, and snakes through the area. The large city sits at the headwaters of the Conali River, controlling the water supply for the rest of the valley. Grand dams and basins hold the water at multiple points. A system of long and deep irrigation canals branch out and feed the rest of the valley.

         Inside the walls, shops and businesses bustle with trade. The diverse population of Nali walks about the streets. A group lazes down the walkway, talking excitedly amongst themselves. A man with a hat pulled low rushes along the sidewalk, dodging and weaving between the masses, late for something or another. A young couple strolls down the street, their eyes darting from storefront to storefront, then back to each other, wondering what they should buy next.

         The cart bounces along the rocky and uneven path, lifting and dropping Griselda into the wooden bench seat. Orange light shines upon the valley road, the sun having crested over the mountains. She wraps the animal skins closer to her, trying to get comfortable. She sighs as her breath exits in a puff of condensation before drifting away. On the horizon, a large shape comes into view. She sits up.

         A large, towering stone wall rises in the distance with towers on both visible corners. The path becomes smoother as they’re approaching, smaller roads lead to farmhouses and homesteads. Her traveling companions begin to murmur around her, the excitement building. The man at the front of the caravan stands up and turns around, a large stomach poking just beneath his tunic and long blond hair flowing in the breeze. He bellows out, “Well, my friends, here we are!” He opens his arms wide, palms up and welcoming, “The great city of Nali!”