Stew simmers on the stove and a bright hearth’s fire burns. After a lone walk by pale starlight in the forest dark, the crone returns. She has a wintry tale in mind to tell. Listen. Find what meaning you will.

 

 

 

There was a crone in need of shelter from the bite of a cold winter’s night. She came upon a village and knocked upon the door of a snowy cottage.  

“I can offer a cup of hot pottage,” said the wife who lived there. Her eyes darted about. “But then you must go, and quick.” She gestured to a pot that bubbled on a grate over the fire.   

The crone lifted the first oniony spoonful to her cracked lips as the door banged open. The husband stopped in the doorway, a dead fox slung over his shoulders, and glared at his wife. “What is this? Who eats my food?”     

The crone gave clear answer. “I am a traveler in need of food and shelter for the night. In exchange I will bless this house.”

“You are nothing more than a begging hag!” The husband grabbed hold of the crone and tossed her out the door. There she landed on her poor leg, snapping the bone. The crone made no sound but turned to look back. Fixing her eyes on the wife, she blew her a magic kiss. This is the end of the crone in our story. The night was too cold; I’m sorry to tell you she died in the wind and the snow.

The next morning when the wife woke, it wasn’t only with bruises—there was fur covering her face.

“This is all your fault,” complained her husband. He pulled back a fist. “That hag you let in surely threw a curse with that blown kiss!” The wife ran from the house. The husband gave chase, but she entered the midwinter wood where he dared not follow.

There the wife wandered lost in the white moonless forest in her gown and bare feet. Wind blew and trees leaned at the wife so that she shrieked to get away. This, on top of howling wolves. When a pale dawn arrived, she found a tree set apart from the rest, with a door set into the ancient wood atop gnarled roots.

She knocked, and when no one answered, she let herself inside the burrow.

Inside she discovered a table with chair, a small bed, and a hearth stacked with wood. Straightaway she made a fire to warm herself. Once her body stopped its shivering she climbed into the bed beneath the quilt, exhausted. The howling kept up, but then woods are meant to have wolves.

Our wife slept all day and back into the night. Once awake she quickened the fire and made herself a meal from a sack of seeds found in the cupboard. With her belly goodly filled, she set about tidying the tree burrow to clear its blanket of dust. This is how she found a hooded red cloak beneath the bed and soft boots that fit her feet. 

“I wonder if I might stay,” she told the tree and heard its branches stir. Feeling cozy and most welcome, she decided not to return to her village for the time being, for who there would take kindly to her face with its fur?

By day she walked the white woods, talking all she pleased, giving her opinions to various trees on a myriad of things. Mushrooms grew in the snow for her to find. Winter berries, too. Once upon an evening a pack of wolves tracked her as she went along, but when she turned her furry face upon them, they bowed. After this she found rabbits left upon her doorstep. With these she made a tasty stew.

Each night she buried deep in her bed’s quilt and with drowsy eyes gazed at the hearth’s glowing embers. The burrow’s branches swished above her head and creaked most pleasant in the wind. She felt safe.

One day as our woman took a walk amidst flurries of snow, she noticed strange stitches in the sky. An unseen hand sewed more and more stitches until the heavens bruised black and blue. At last, she realized that the stitches were not stitches but birds. They made an awful sound like none other she’d ever heard.

The ravens easily spied her bright red cloak moving swift in the white forest below. They dived from the sky, breaking branches to reach our woman and fly about her in a whirlwind of black wings. She fended off their sharp talons as she ran for her burrow. Once inside, she slammed the door only to fall back on her bottom as birds pelted into the wood. She heard her beloved tree groan with the weight of countless ravens landing upon its branches. This made her angry.

“What do you want?” she hollered through the door.

A solitary screeching voice bid her greeting and said:

“We seek a rib!”

“A what?”

“A rib, a certain husband’s wife, are you she? This wife must return to her husband’s side from whence she came. Tell us the truth, what is your name? Do not lie, or we will know. A sorcerer’s spell is cast upon us to tell us so.”

And then the unkindness of ravens shrieked in awful chorus over and again:

 

Please, if we don’t find the rib,

We shall suffer the blame.

Must we peck out your eyes?

Just tell us your name!

 

Our woman clutched her ears, so horrible shrill did the ravens sing. She opened her lips to give her name to make the chorus stop—

And couldn’t be more surprised to find that she could not.

The notion of a name seemed absurd. How could she have one and whatever would it be? For her mind was as clear and vast as the sky, and she breathed into her lungs the traveling wind. Her being was no less deeply rooted than the standing trees. Her dreams moved with the moon, and she had rivers of life’s blood flowing within her veins. What had happened was this:

She’d become so wild she’d forgotten her name!

That’s when she knew.

“I am of the earth, not of a man,” she said, astonished.

You should know that when any woman comes awake, she suddenly sees this exact same thing. Never mind old stories which proclaim that in the beginning woman was born of a man. Forgive my old woman’s laughter, but everyone knows it never happens that way.     

Think on this and see. And ask what the purpose of men telling things backward might be!

As for our wild woman of the earth, she opened the burrow door and told the ravens: “I am most definitely not a rib. Not only that. I have no name to tell you that is wholly true. For I am me, but also wind and river and tree.”

The sorcerer’s spell upon the birds made certain this confession was accepted as pure fact. “You are not the rib we seek,” the birds shrieked and beat their wings to fly away and never come back.   

Nameless. Wild. And free. Our woman delighted that she now possessed a knowing like none other she’d had before. What this meant was this:

She’d never after be deceived.

What a very good thing! For when the sorcerer’s ravens couldn’t find what the husband wanted back, he gathered what courage he had and set out into the woods. Eventually he found the tree burrow and peered through its window to see a woman with a furry face tending a fire inside.

“You must come home now,” he called out to her. For he was weary of burnt suppers.

Our wild woman opened the door in surprise. Looking into his eyes, she could see he had not changed. He was not wild as she but remained unnatural with false stories—he was tamed. This is how she knew it best to say nothing at all to him and went to shut the door. But first—

She offered him a wolfish grin.

And he ran all the way home.

 

 

Okay, so this one is a smidgen longer than flash fiction is supposed to be…but I couldn’t cut any more words, my apologies!

A little commentary: This story is not at all meant to be anti-men. I have a husband and three sons whom I love and adore. No, it’s meant to point to equality, nothing more.

What isn’t separate but is like unto all the world is just plain difficult to give a name, is it not? Just as our wild woman discovered.

And as, perhaps, may you. There is no need for you to ‘make a name’ for yourself. How much better to fall into the thrill of being whole by blending into all the beautiful world? You can choose to be:

Nameless. Wild. And free.

 

If you found meaning in this wild tale, I very much hope you subscribe to CRONE TALES.

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