They say there is a mystic wood somewhere,

Where magic and enchantment fill the air.

The twilight reins under the ancient oaks.

Dark lichens cover knotted bark and rocks.

The silence is complete, no sound is heard:

The murmur of a spring, the chirping of a bird.

Green moss is thick and muffles every stride.

So, please, be watchful: it will try to hide,

A path that leads to an abandoned hut.

If you step in, the olden walls will start,

Tell fairy tales. Not one, not two, but more,

Charmed stories that were never heard before.

But would you dare to come to this bewitching place?

And if you would, a dreamlike realm awaits!

Olwen Bardow

The Tale of The Feud and the Dream

This month's story:

Last month's story:

The Tale of the Precious Chest and The Enchanted Mill

(Stories to be continued...)

The Tale of the Precious Chest and The Enchanted Mill

Once upon a time, there lived a rich merchant who had two sons: the elder and the younger. He was very wealthy and owned a house that was richly decorated with many items of luxury and foreign curiosities. Surprisingly, from among all these precious objects, what the merchant valued the most was a simple, small, unremarkable wooden box that he kept on his desk.

“This is the most valuable thing of all our possessions!” he would say to his two sons, “It is worth all the riches put together!”

The merchant forbade his offspring to ever touch the box. But of course, the boys were very intrigued by it, and so one day they secretly looked inside this mystic container. To their disappointment, it was empty. They decided that their father must have been joking.

The two siblings never bothered thinking about the box any longer, until the day came when the younger brother remembered all about it. By that time, the boys had grown up and become young men.

It happened that the elder brother was away overseas. Storms and adverse winds had delayed his journey back, and upon return, he found out that during his absence, the old merchant had died. He also had a bitter surprise because his younger brother, being a conniving fellow, had hired a solicitor and made his father sign a document before his demise, stating that the old wooden box that stood on his desk was more precious than his entire estate. By the law of this land, the elder son was supposed to get the better part of the family inheritance, and thus, the merchant’s elder son ended up with just the small wooden box, while his brother kept all the rest.

With the wooden box in his pocket as his only possession, the elder brother left the city because from now on all his acquaintances avoided him, not wanting to shelter the drifter. Finally, he sat on the side of the road and said to himself:

“I have no idea what to do now, I don’t see any way out, except to jump into the deep sea and find my peace there!”

“What a vile idea!” a voice was heard which came from the pocket where the wooden box was.

The elder brother snatched the box in amazement and opened the lid. Again, he saw no one.

“Who are you?” he called. “Show yourself!”

“I am a house spirit,” he got a reply, “I belong to the brownies, but I am very private and do not like to be gazed at. In general, I do not like it when I am disturbed either, but now is the time to act. Don’t be sad, I’ll help you. If you listen to me carefully and do as I tell, you’ll find wealth.”

The elder brother swore that he would follow the advice of the spirit in the box. Then the brownie-spirit told him to get hired as a worker at the nearest farm for one year, and ask for a bag of ripened wheat as payment for his services.

“Until you get what I told you, do not disturb me!” said the brownie to the elder brother and went silent.

The elder brother obeyed the instructions he was given. He walked to the nearest farm, got hired as a worker there, labored hard for the whole year, and then got his bag of ripened wheat.

“Oh house spirit, are you there?” he called, taking the box out but never raising the lid this time, for he remembered that the brownie liked privacy. “I got the bag of ripened wheat!”

“So, I see, good!” he heard the familiar voice, “Now go to your precious brother and ask him to lend you a horse and a cart. Tell him that you need to bring to some place a bag of wheat that you earned. Your sibling is vile, but curious. He’ll give you what you ask for.”

It all happened as the brownie-spirit had predicted. The younger brother lent the horse and a cart to the elder one, but he was overcome by suspicions that his brother was up to something.

“Now what do I need to do?” asked the elder brother of the brownie-spirit, when he got the cart with the horse and loaded his wheat there.

“Go to the distant mill in the dark forest and grind the grain there at night,” the brownie-spirit responded, “Today will be the night of the full moon, suitable for just that.”

The elder brother felt uneasy, for he had heard stories about the distant mill in the forest. The place was considered to be unfriendly and enchanted, as was the forest that surrounded it. Many people who dared go to the mill disappeared without a trace.

“Don’t be afraid,” the brownie-spirit reassured the elder brother, “Just go. You have nothing to lose anyway, and if you listen to what I tell you, you can gain a lot!”

So, the elder brother rode into the dark forest. Along the way, the brownie-spirit told him to fill his pockets with small sharp stones from the road, the ones that would sparkle in the sun, and also to pick a large bunch of beautiful wildflowers.

They came to the dark forest at dusk. It was gloomy and quiet under the tree canopies. The elder brother could not shake an uneasy feeling that he was being watched from behind every bush and tree trunk.

“Soon you will ride up to the bog,” the brownie-spirit whispered to him, “The bog-dwelling spirit woman will block your path. She’ll ask you to tell her a riddle. If she guesses the answer, then you are in trouble. Remember, she can solve any riddle, but not one about the bog itself!”

Indeed, soon the road came to a green bog, over which a whitish fog swirled. Then a bulging-eyed figure, dressed in rags, with tangled green hair, emerged from behind the nearest hummock and blocked the road.

“You won’t get through,” hissed the bog woman. “Ask me a riddle first. If I don’t guess the answer, you’ll continue on your way. If I solve your riddle, you’ll remain forever at the bottom of my quagmire! “

“As you wish!” agreed the elder brother and said:

“Not the water, not the land,
Hard to walk on, tough to stand.
There are hummocks, sedge, and reeds,
Tell me quickly what it is.”

The bog-dwelling spirit woman plunged into thought, started to hum with effort and mumble. Then she gave out a deep sigh, waved her bony hand, and stepped aside.

“You may go!” she announced sullenly. “I can’t guess what it is. You’re so cunning!”

The elder brother didn’t have to be asked twice and quickly took hold of the reins. A shiny round moon rose over the forest, and it became brighter all around.

“Now scatter the pebbles that you have in your pockets on the road,” the brownie-spirit quietly ordered. “Dark foresters will surround you soon. They will grab the horse by the bridle and start to drag you off the cart. Tell them that shards of the stars fell on the road behind you.”

The elder brother did as he was told and dropped the pebbles on the road. The sharp pebbles truly did shine well and bright in the moonlight. Hardly had he thrown the final pebble when scary figures rushed at him from all sides of the thicket. They had heads and bodies, arms and legs, like humans, but were made of bark and branches. The dark foresters grabbed the horse by the bridle and began to rock the cart, almost turning it over. The elder brother shouted out, although his throat was constricted with fear, as he was truly scared:

“Don’t you know? Shards of stars fell to the ground. There they are, shining behind on the road!”

As soon as he uttered that, the dark foresters left him and rushed to hunt for the sharp stones. They were collecting them and quarreling among themselves. A menacing uproar arose, while the elder brother did not waste any time and hurriedly rode away.

“Well done!” the brownie-spirit praised him. “We are almost there. The door of the mill will be locked, and the mermaid of the mill pond keeps the key. Ask her for this key and offer her the flowers.”

The elder brother rode up to a lonely mill. It was an ancient building with walls covered in moss. Right above the roof, the bright full moon was shining. The mill pond was covered with water lilies.

He threw the wildflowers into the water and said politely: “I brought you some special flowers that grow in the fields, oh mill pond maiden, so you can make a pretty wreath to highlight your beauty. Give me the key to the mill!”

He immediately felt an eeriness from the sound of his own voice, since such silence reigned around the enchanted place, and then, he almost fell into the pond, because he was startled by a white hand rising above the surface of the water and depositing a weighty key on a mossy stone nearby.

The elder brother grabbed the key and placed it into the lock. The lock clicked, the door creaked and opened, and he found himself inside the mill. The moonlight decently illuminated its interior. The elder brother brought his bag inside and began to grind the grain. The millstones rustled, the water started to gurgle, the mill wheel groaned, and the voice of the mermaid from the pond sang:

“You worked hard for this fine grain,

You won’t make your trip in vain!”

Then a melodic ringing was heard, as silver coins fell to the floor, glittering like little moons. The mill was grinding the grain into coins. The whole night passed this way, with the rustling of the millstones, the groaning of the mill wheel, and the singing of the mermaid. By dawn, a whole heap of silver coins lay on the floor. All the grain from the bag had been ground and turned into money.

The bag was not even big enough to pack all the silver. The elder brother had to tie some of it into his jacket and place some into his hat. When he was leaving the mill, he involuntarily turned around and saw the door slam shut, the key, which was still sticking out of the lock, clicking and turning by itself, and then flying through the air and plopping into the waters of the pond.

Now, in the morning light, the forest seemed much more welcoming. The elder brother left it without incident. Only when he reached the bog did he see in the thick shadow under a bush, the huddled bog-dwelling spirit woman, who was muttering something.

Seeing the elder brother, the bog woman rushed to him, grabbed the side of his cart with her hands, and growled:

“Tell me the answer to the riddle, otherwise I won’t be able to get any peace now!”

“It’s a bog, my lady,” said the elder brother.

The bog-dwelling spirit woman hit herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand in annoyance and jumped into the greenish muck of the bog, disappearing behind a hummock.

“Are you happy with the wealth you acquired?” asked the voice of the brownie-spirit from the box.

“More than happy!” replied the elder brother.

“Remember, if your younger brother questions you on where you have gotten the money, tell him everything, without hiding a single fact.”

The elder brother returned the horse and cart to the younger one. The latter searched it thoroughly and to his amazement, found two silver coins under the hay that lined the cart.

“So, that’s the kind of grain he was grinding!” the younger brother said to himself and went to his elder sibling to question him.

The elder brother told him all about the mill and the brownie-spirit.

“He was luckier after all,” the younger brother thought angrily. “I have to engage in work when he can grind up some money for himself at
any moment!”

The greedy one thought and thought the whole thing over, and could not resist the temptation. He bought five sacks of grain, loaded them into a cart, and went to the enchanted mill. He deftly avoided all the obstacles on his way: he posed a riddle to the bog woman about the bog, deceived the black foresters with the shiny pebbles, got the key for the mill from the mermaid, and all the time he was not afraid, for he was driven by greed.

But as soon as he began to grind the grain, the millstones started to groan with effort, the water roared menacingly, the mill wheel pounded loudly, and the mermaid’s voice cried out in anger:

“Didn’t work for this fine grain

You will make your trip in vain!”

And then even louder: “You are an impostor! Stop the impostor!”

The doors of the mill slammed shut, the key clicked in the lock, bolting it securely. The younger brother was terrified. He climbed out of the window of the mill, which was right above the pond. Then the mermaid grabbed him by the legs and dragged him to the bottom. That’s how the younger brother perished. But it was he who brought the trouble upon himself.

His horse found its way out of the forest and wandered home with the cart. In the end, all the merchant’s property, which the younger brother had appropriated for himself through trickery, went to his elder brother. All according to the law. As for the elder brother, he had a comfortable life, but he always considered the simple wooden box, in which the brownie-spirit lived, to be the most precious of all the riches he possessed.

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(Stories to be continued...)

The Tale of The Feud and the Dream

Once upon a time, there lived a baron. For several generations, his family was engaged in a deadly feud. The war of “the Griffin” and “the Wolf”, as it was called, for the baron’s coat of arms carried the Griffin, while the Wolf was baring its teeth on the crest of his foe. Many battles were fought, much blood was shed. The two adversaries were tearing each other to pieces, but neither could get the upper hand.

That was until “the Griffin” started to lose battles. The baron’s opponent became more and more cunning, seemingly anticipating every move of the baron. It was as if he was reading the baron’s very thoughts about his war strategy.

“I am being slowly defeated,” thought the baron. “How disappointed my ancestors, who waged the war successfully and never gave in to the enemy, would have been if they knew of my misfortunes. If another battle is lost, I won’t be able to recover my forces.”

Therefore, the baron hurried along the gallery of the portraits of the Griffin barons of old, without raising his head, afraid to see the silent reproach in their eyes. Once, however, when his reconnaissance detachment was ambushed and destroyed, he approached the oldest darkened portrait of his great-great-great-grandfather.

It was he who built and fortified the castle, the citadel of the Griffin, and began the war with the aggressive Wolf.

“You must be disappointed that your side is losing and the Griffin stronghold could soon fall because your descendant turned out to be a weakling,” said the baron. “It is unimaginably hard for me too!”

The baron raised his head and looked at the portrait. It seemed to him that the eyes on the canvas had come to life for a brief moment, and looked back at him not with contempt, but with warmth and understanding, before fading again.

From that time, the baron began to have the same dream every night. He stood outside the walls of his castle, on a plain covered with freshly fallen snow, while the full moon shone brightly in the night sky. The baron looked at the moon and then lowered his gaze to the snowy expanse spreading out in front of him and saw a chain of prints that had not been there a moment before leading away from the castle towards a quiet hollow nearby.

The dream was so vivid that the baron decided to check it out on the spot. There was only one day left before the decisive battle with the enemy. The baron waited until nightfall, then discreetly slipped out of the castle through a secret passage. Everything was as in his dream. The moon was shining in the sky. A light snow had fallen and covered the plain in front of the castle. The baron looked at the moon, then at the ground and saw a chain of prints in the snow that led from the place where he stood right to the quiet hollow. These were strange prints, they did not belong to either an animal or a human, as if a tree branch had been dragged through the snow.

He reached the quiet hollow and saw a light sparkling in the distance. Finally, the baron came to a hut, crudely made of rough stones. He was surprised, for he did not remember that any dwelling existed in the hollow. The light was coming through the loosely closed shutter of a small window. Also, a soft song began to flow out of the hut. The baron peeked in the window and saw a young woman sitting near a cradle and singing a lullabyto her child. The burning fireplace softly illuminated the room, and on the walls danced intertwining shadows. Listening to the song, the baron involuntarily shuddered.

“Oh, my dear child, go to sleep,
All your sweet dreams I’ll tightly keep,
You won’t be affected by worries and hassle
Like our baron who lives in the castle.
He got a traitor around in his ranks.
Because of this snake, good fortune he lacks.
If he won’t find the spy, he’ll perish in sorrow,
And certainly, lose his combat tomorrow,”

sang the woman.

The baron took hold of the door handle and was about to enter the hut when he heard a menacing roar behind him. He turned around and barely had time to draw his sword when a huge, ferocious wolf attacked him. It looked exactly like the beast that adorned the coat of arms of the baron’s opponent. A terrible battle began. The wolf’s claws were sharper than daggers, and his teeth were like sword blades. His eyes burned with a raging fire.

The end would have come for the baron, but his trusty sword helped its master. It pierced the wolf through and through. The wolf snapped its teeth one last time and died, pouring dark blood onto the snow. The door of the hut opened, and the young woman stepped onto its threshold. Her skin was white, as if touched by the frost of winter, her eyes shone like stars in the night sky, and her hair glowed like the moonlight. She did not look human at all, and the baron guessed that she belonged to the Fay People.

“You protected the wife and child of the Master of the Hollow during his absence,” said the young woman. “He will never forget this service. You’ll find the one who betrayed you, oh baron. The weapon of the traitor will turn to ashes when it touches the blade of your sword. Farewell!”

At that very moment a blizzard arose, hiding everything from the baron: the mysterious hut, the woman standing on its threshold, the wolf’s corpse in the snow, and the hollow itself.

The baron closed his eyes for a moment, blinded by the flying snow, and when he opened them again, he found himself in his room in the castle.

“Did I really see all this in a dream?” thought the baron in amazement, but then he saw his clothes torn in the fight with the wolf. His breastplate, as he was wearing some protective armor, was bent and bore scratches from the blow of a paw with sharp claws. The baron grabbed his sword. There were no traces of wolf’s blood on the blade, but red sparks shone in the steel of the faithful weapon as if they were soldered there.

The baron jumped up and hurried into the castle courtyard, called his squad, and ordered the fires to be lit.

The baron told his men to prepare for battle. He then he ordered everyone to swear an oath of allegiance to him once again, for the coming combat would be a decisive one and he needed truly loyal people by his side. He drew his sword and said that each warrior under his command should touch its blade with the blade of their own weapon.

All his men did so willingly. Their blades rang out loudly, striking their leader’s blade, while everyone repeated the words of the oath. However, only one blade did not ring out loudly but shattered into pieces. It was the blade of the one warrior the baron would never have suspected, the one who was supposed to command the reserve ambush regiment.

Thus, the baron found and executed the traitor and then triumphed as the winner of the battle in which he slew his opponent, the one who wore the ferocious wolf on his coat of arms. The feud was over.

“The Griffin tore the Wolf’s throat and remained the winner. Who would have thought!” the neighbors said in the aftermath, “we were sure that the Wolf would bite the Griffin in half, but look how it all turned out!”

Since then, the baron was not threatened by any betrayal. As soon as a person swearing allegiance to him was taking the oath and touching the baron’s sword with his blade, his secret intentions became clear as day. It was no longer possible to deceive the baron.

And he was also grateful to his ancestor. He was sure that the matter could not have been resolved without his help. He addressed his great-great-great-grandfather in the portrait gallery many times, but the eyes of the portrait always remained dim. Probably, the founder of the castle decided that the real danger that threatened his family line had passed, and the present baron no longer needed his assistance to deal with everyday life from now on.

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I have always been intrigued by the essence of the fairy tale genre. While set in an ageless "once upon a time," these stories depart from cliché by centering, in addition to mystery and adventure, on the inherent strength of character of their heroes, whose problem-solving, resilience, and exploration of the unknown they emphasize. Each story follows an original plot, yet adheres to the structural conventions and moral weight of the classic fairytale genre.

My Inspiration