Image courtesy of Frank McKenna at Unsplash
Once, in a land of meandering rivers and gentle hills, there lived an old woman. She had not always been old, of course, and in her youth she married and bore children, baked bread and picked apples, and sewed beautiful dresses and sturdy boots and fine cloaks for her children and then her children’s children. And, when the time came, she sewed the death shroud for her husband and laid him to rest, with a kiss, in the rich soil of the earth.
With that kiss, the old woman realized that she was, indeed, old, and that she did not have much time left to her. Gathering up a small pack, she filled it with fruits from the orchard and bread warm from the hearth, and a long roll of soft fabric. She pinned her favorite needle through her dress, right above her heart, and wrapped a skein of her favorite thread around her wrist. Taking up a hefty walking staff, she bid farewell to her children and her grandchildren; and, though they disapproved, they bid her farewell, too, and she set out into the world.
She walked and she walked and she walked, over hills and through forests, around mountains and across vast flowering plains. And, wherever she went, she would find a comfortable spot to rest — on the edge of a fountain, beneath the boughs of a leafy tree, within a cool grotto — take out her needle and thread and the long roll of soft fabric, and begin to embroider the places that she had seen and the people whom she had befriended. And as she sewed, the people of that place would come and admire her work; and often they would share their food and their stories, for they recognized her skill, and they desired the dresses and boots and cloaks that she could make for them.
Now it happened one day that she came to rest on the edge of a once-fine country estate. She sat down beneath the dried and brittle branches of an orange tree, pulled out her bread and some fruit, and threaded her needle.
As she set to work on the long roll of fabric, chronicling her adventures as she crossed hill and forest and mountain and vast flowering plain, a maiden dressed in rags appeared, weeping, and fell among the roots of the orange tree.
The old woman offered the wretched girl some bread and some fruit, and used the hem of her dress to dry the young woman’s tears. When the maiden was finally able to speak, she explained the cause of her distress:
“This was once a happy household, prosperous, with a kind lord and lady to oversee it all. But my mother died and was laid to rest in the rich soil of the earth. And my father, in his grief, wed a woman who was beautiful, but cruel and greedy — and her two children are little better. They soon drove my father to lie in the earth beside his beloved wife. My step-mother has destroyed this place: consumed the food and the animals, sold the furnishings and jewels, spent the coin. There is nothing left. And now she has set her sights on the King himself, and plans to win his heart at a ball this very night. I fear what will surely become of the land, and the people one and all, if she should win his affections and his hand, as she did my father’s.”
The old woman sat silent for some time, her needle flashing as she sewed. The fabric slowly unrolled, the thread flowing and rippling as she embroidered the girl’s story. And when she had finished, she looked up with a smile and said:
“This is what we shall do. Your dress is a ruin. I shall fix it up for you, and make it beautiful again. I see that your feet are bare. I shall embroider you some slippers, as well; for one may dance barefoot in the forest and in the warmth of our own kitchen, but not upon the fine floors of the King’s palace. And when you see the King, you shall tell him all that you have told me. If he is a wise King, he will listen and hear the truth of your words, and spare the land and its people from the cruelty and greed of your step-mother.”
And so the old woman and the young girl set to work. They gathered bits of fabric from the ruins of the lord’s once prosperous estate — scraps of velvet and silk, bits of linen and muslin — and flowers from the garden and leaves from the trees; and then bits of wonderful things from the orchard — moth wings and spiderwebs, dew from hidden leaves and soft tufts of dandelions. And all of these the old woman arranged and re-arranged until she was satisfied. And then her needle flashed in the sunlight, sparked and danced as the sun slowly made its way into the west of the sky and the moon rose in the east.
And when she was done, the maiden exclaimed in wonder. For the dress was a delight, deepest red around the collar, shading to pink and then mauve and then deepest purple at the hem. There was a crown of roses and lavender for her hair and, for her feet, delicate slippers of moth wings and spiderwebs and the softest tufts of dandelions.
With a grateful hug and kiss, the girl mounted her father’s old stallion and set out for the King’s palace. She waved farewell, swearing that she would never forget the old woman’s kindness.
With a wave in return and a smile, the old woman gathered up her pack and her walking staff, pinned her needle above her heart, and set out once again. She walked and she walked and she walked, over hills and through forests, around mountains and across vast flowering plains.
Now it happened one day that she came to rest on the edge of a vast and dense woodland, where the only habitation to be seen was a small cottage with a chimney and a brightly painted door. She sat down in the cool shade, pulled out her bread and some fruit, and threaded her needle.
As she set to work on the long roll of fabric that chronicled her travels and the people she had befriended, she heard the sounds of weeping and wailing coming from within the tiny house. Unable to bear the sound, she knocked her walking staff against the brightly painted door and, when it opened, she beheld a wretched man of middling years, his eyes swollen with grief.
The old woman offered the poor man some bread and some fruit, and used the hem of her dress to dry his tears. When the man was finally able to speak, he sat her down by his fireplace and explained the cause of his despair:
“I am the father of seven clever and hard-working children. I love them all, eldest to youngest, youngest to eldest. Every day, we travel out into the forest, and there we harvest fine timber, berries and herbs and mushrooms, which we sell to the people of the towns and to the King in his palace. But yesterday, unbeknownst to us, we trespassed on the lands of a frightful giant. He seized my children as payment for our crime and bore them away to his cave. I fear that they shall soon be nothing but meat and bones in his stew.”
The old woman sat silent for some time, her needle flashing as she sewed. The fabric slowly unrolled, the thread flowing and rippling as she embroidered the man’s story. And when she had finished, she looked up with a smile and said:
“This is what we shall do. Bring me the scraps of your children’s shoes, old and broken and out-grown though they may be. From these, I shall make you a fine and sturdy pair of boots, and with these boots you will be able to cross the giant’s lands, all the way to his cave, and he shall not hear you. No, he shall not hear a sound. And I shall make boots for your clever and hard-working children, as well, eldest to youngest, youngest to eldest. And when you find your children, they shall put on the boots and together you will escape the giant and return safely home.”
And so the old woman and the man set to work. They gathered every scrap of the children’s shoes that they could find, no matter how torn or cracked or frayed. And all of these the old woman arranged and re-arranged until she was satisfied. And then her needle flashed in the firelight, sparked and danced as the sun slowly made its way into the west of the sky and the moon rose in the east.
And when she was done, the man exclaimed in surprise. For arrayed upon the hearth were eight pairs of sturdy boots, from largest to smallest. The soles were so soft that he made not a sound after he put them on.
With a grateful hug and kiss, the man gathered up the remaining boots, looped them over his shoulders, and set out for the giant’s cave deep in the woods. He waved farewell, vowing that he would never forget the old woman’s kindness.
With a wave in return and a smile, the old woman gathered up her pack and her walking staff, pinned her needle above her heart, and set out once again. She walked and she walked and she walked, over hills and through forests, around mountains and across vast flowering plains.
Now it happened one day that she came to rest on the shores of a wide blue lake, the far shore of which was lost to sun and mist. She sat down upon the soft grass, pulled out her bread and some fruit, and threaded her needle.
As she set to work on the long roll of fabric, chronicling her wanderings and the people she had befriended, a naked child appeared, a single swan feather in hand. The child’s skin sagged with hunger and, unable to bear the sight, the old woman offered the child her bread and fruit.
The child devoured the food. And then, belly full, the child held aloft the feather and told the old woman a terrible tale of betrayal and grief:
“I am one of the Swan People. We fly the high winds, traveling between the frost-touched seas of the north and the sun-warmed seas of the south. We visit many lakes and rivers as we travel, and we have befriended many of the people who live and fish upon these lakes and rivers. When we came to rest here, the people invited us to feast and dance with them beneath the moon. We cast aside our feathered cloaks, as he have done many times, and danced with the people all through the night. But, when the sun rose from the eastern side of the world, we discovered that they had seized our cloaks, for they mean to keep us as slaves to work their boats, till their fields, and warm their beds.”
“Are there none who may come to your aid?” the old woman asked.
“There are,” the child answered. “Our cousins who share the sky with us — the Eagle People and the Raven People, the Hummingbird People and the Bat People — are numerous and would come to our aid, but we have no way to reach them.”
The old woman sat silent for some time, her needle flashing as she sewed. The fabric slowly unrolled, the thread flowing and rippling as she embroidered the child’s story. And when she had finished, she looked up with a smile and said:
“This is what we shall do. We shall gather what feathers we can find, be they from wrens or robins, sparrows or finches, and I shall make a cloak of them. In the center of that cloak, I shall sew your single swan feather. You shall take your other form and find your cousins in the sky, and return and free the Swan People from those who would abuse them.”
And so the old woman and the child set to work. They gathered every feather they could find along the shores of the bright blue lake. And all of these the old woman arranged and re-arranged until she was satisfied. And then her needle flashed, sparked and danced as the sun slowly made its way into the west of the sky and the moon rose in the east.
And when she was done, the child exclaimed in astonishment. For laid out upon the ground was a cloak of many colors, from brightest robin red to sleek crow black, and in the center the shining white of a single swan feather.
The child gathered up the cloak, flung it into the air, and disappeared. In the child’s place flew a beautiful bird unlike any ever seen. The bird sang, wings flapping in farewell, vowing to never forget the old woman’s kindness.
With a wave in return and a smile, the old woman gathered up her pack and her walking staff, pinned her needle above her heart, and set out once again. She walked and she walked and she walked, over hills and through forests, around mountains and across vast flowering plains. And so it was that her steps took her home, back to her children and her children’s children, and the hearth where they baked bread and the orchard where they grew apples and other sweet fruits. Her children embraced the old woman and kissed her and sat her down at the table, demanding to hear about the many places she had visited and the people whom she had befriended.
And so she told them of her adventures, rolling out the fabric that she had so carefully embroidered. Her children and her children’s children stared in wonder, then shook their heads and began to whisper among themselves and laugh. For how could the old woman have done all of these things, with only her needle and thread?
Upon hearing their whispers and laughter, the old woman grew angry, for she knew the truth of her words and the worth of what she had done and the friends she had made. And so she went out and knelt beside the spot where she had laid her husband in the rich earth; then she gathered up her walking staff once again, and her long roll of fabric. She filled her pack with bread and fruit, pinned her needle above her heart, wrapped thread around her wrist, and set out once again into the world.
Now it happened, not many moons after she left, that a grand caravan arrived, the people and the horses dressed finely. The old woman’s children and grandchildren watched in amazement as the King himself climbed down from his stallion to knock at their door. They invited him to sit at their table and share their bread and fruit. The King graciously accepted, then asked:
“And what of the old woman with her needle and thread? I have traveled far, for I owe her much.”
The children and grandchildren looked at one another in confusion and shame, finally asking:
“But what could a King such as yourself owe an old woman?”
And so the King explained:
“She came to the aid of my land and my people when I did not. Thanks to that old woman, a courageous maiden revealed to me a cruel and greedy woman who would have brought ruin to my land, and that woman was justly punished. Now that maiden is one of my wisest and most trusted advisors. Thanks to that old woman, children were spared a terrible fate, a family was reunited, and a monster that would have devoured the land bit by bit was brought to a just end. Now that father lives happily and safely with his children on the edge of the woods once again. Thanks to that old woman, an enslaved people were freed, and those who held them prisoner were dealt with as they justly deserved. So I will ask you again, where is the old woman with her needle and thread?”
The children and grandchildren shook their heads and whispered among themselves, and then began to weep. They told the King of how the old woman had returned home, of how they had ill-treated her, and of how she had once again set out into the world.
Angry, the King climbed back onto his stallion. He turned his caravan for home, offering neither a wave nor a farewell. As he traveled, he stopped at every cottage and estate and town, telling the people about the old woman and all that she had done. And the people told the story among themselves, and they marveled.
As for the old woman, it is said that she walks still over hills and through forests, around mountains and across vast flowering plains. And, wherever she goes, she finds a comfortable spot to rest — on the edge of a fountain, beneath the boughs of a leafy tree, within a cool grotto — takes out her needle and thread and the long roll of soft fabric, and begins to embroider the places that she has seen and the people whom she has befriended. And if you have need of her aid, she will sit for a time, her needle flashing and dancing as she hears your tale, and then she will smile and tell you what must be done.
[Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of the Pagan literary ezine, Eternal Haunted Summer. A complete list of her published works can be found there.]
