Tatterhood Read Free Page B

looking towards the door. ‘Nor was it ever so.’
    â€˜My dear, it was so in my dream,’ said the young woman, ‘which you have promised to hear without fussing. So, in my dream, I ran out again. But I got no further than the blood-buckets, because the bird was shrilling at me to hide.
    â€˜I hid myself amongst the corpses and, in my dream, a man came in, who had with him by the hair a girl so lovely that I never saw the likes. I dreamt that she wept and begged to be spared, but he cared not a whit for either weeping or entreaties. In my dream, he tore at her costly clothes and at her gold, and spared neither her life nor anything else. Then, in my dream, he chopped off the finger where she wore her ring, and it sprang into the air and flew under the bed … to me.’
    â€˜It isn’t so at my house,’ cried the man, leaping to his feet and spilling mead. ‘That is nothing like what happens at my house.’
    â€˜But it was at your house that it happened,’ said she. And with that she produced the finger. ‘Here is the finger. And here is the ring. And you are the man who hacked it off!’
    The groom had grown as pale as a corpse. He knocked the table sideways, sprang from his bench and would have escaped … had not the company leapt upon him, grabbed him and dragged him away.
    It is said they beat him to death, and that they burnt his body and house till there was nothing left. But whether or not the bird got away – and whether or not the girl lived happily ever after – nobody cares to tell.

Ma’s Girl and Pa’s Girl

    Once upon a time in the bad old days – when the world was worse than it is now, and far more muddy – there was a couple who had one daughter each. That is, there was Ma’s girl and there was Pa’s girl.
    Ma’s girl was sour and lazy and good for nothing, except for being mean. Pa’s girl, on the other hand, was lively and cheerful and good for all sorts of things. She was good for so much, in fact, that she made Ma’s girl sick just to be near her. One day, Ma’s girl had an idea.
    â€˜You are always so clever and forward,’ she said to Pa’s girl. ‘But even so, I’m not afraid to have a spinning contest with you. I’ll spin flax, you spin bristles, and the first to snap her thread goes down the well.’
    The contest wasn’t entirely fair, but Pa’s girl was willing to try it anyway, so they sat themselves by the well with their spindles – Ma’s girl with her flax and Pa’s girl with bristles – and started spinning.
    In no time at all, Pa’s girl broke her thread. Ma’s girl pushed her into the well and down she fell, deeper and deeper, down through the slime and the dark. But instead of splashing into water and drowning as she should have, she landed on the warm grass of a sunny afternoon.
    Dusting herself off, she started walking. Before long, she came to a brush fence which stood in her way, all bristles and twigs.
    â€˜Tread easy on me, will you,’ said the brush fence to Pa’s girl, ‘and I’ll help you in your own need, one day.’
    So Pa’s girl made herself light as feathers and trod so careful that she barely trod at all.
    Then she walked a bit further, and soon passed a cow that was standing there with a bucket hanging from one of its horns. It was sleek and it was hefty – and its udders were so tight with milk it could barely move.
    â€˜Be so good as to milk me, will you,’ begged the cow. ‘Drink as much as you like, then sling the rest on my hooves and I’ll help you in your own need, one day.’
    Lively as ever, Pa’s girl did as she was asked. The milk streamed into the bucket at her lightest touch, filling it foamy and full. Then she drank what she could, slung the remainder on the cow’s hooves and hung the bucket back where it belonged.
    When Pa’s girl had gone a bit