The maiden and the bog-man, a fairytale
Once, in the grassy yellow moors of the North, there was a small village. Beside the village was a grand forest, within the forest was a deep bog, and inhabiting the bog was a great creature.
The great creature came to the small village every three years to attack and feed on the people of the village. The people accepted this because an oracle had told them to await a noble hero who would fell the creature and save the village from its destruction.
One time, however, the creature of the bog came for a more diplomatic visit. This visit was during the daylight, and the people could make out more than just the bog-man's hulking silhouette. Rough, rock-like skin, greenish tusks and talons, yellow-eyes. But bipedal, walking in a way almost human. As the villagers stared, he told them he required a maiden sacrifice. He would not disturb the village until her death, when he would return to his pattern.
Warily, the villagers accepted, sent a maiden with a dress the silvery-blue of the racing rivers, and had a decade of peace to train the candidates for their noble hero as the river girl dined each night at the beast's table.
However, when the creature returned, the villagers were still not ready. The bog creature asked again for a maiden and offered peace until she died.
The villagers, once again, apprehensively sent the creature a new young maiden with locks as dark as the ebony branches. With this maiden's departure, two decades of peace were spent training their possible noble heroes as the ebony-haired girl slept each night holed away in the beast's cave.
The creature returned once more and, this time, the villagers had a maiden ready for the sacrifice. “Here is a maiden, great bog-man,” they said. “May she satisfy your needs until her death.”
The creature accepted and took the maiden with him to his bog.
The third maiden observed the trail, glancing at the greying bones littering the way to the bog and the torn fabrics and charms left by past meals. Her eyes avoided the jaundiced gaze of the beast and the sharp hands he led her with. She memorized the path as best she could and dropped a copper coin - glinting in the sunlight despite its greening material - when the forest’s edge left her vision.
When the beast and the maiden arrived at the bog, he showed her a stone bench on which to wait. She obeyed, though shivered at the slab beneath. Like the bones on the trail and the bog itself, the stone bench was rough and grey and unforgivingly cold.
The creature returned and brought with him a lace embroidered veil and a dusty brown leather scroll of vows. The beast and the maiden wed and exchanged their words.
They swore on the same vows the village used - to hold each other no matter the circumstance until death found them.
The newlywed couple laid to rest in their wedding bed. The forest darkened alongside the gaze of the beast. His gold eyes set upon his new wife and she trembled in both fear and determination.
The next day, the villagers were shocked to see the return of the no-longer-maiden. She dragged behind her the twisted and deformed corpse of the beast of the bog. “I have slain the bog-man,” she told them.
The villagers exchanged confounded glances, agog at her return. “But the oracle told us a hero would be the one to free us of this beast,” a man in the crowd murmured.
“Well, I have freed this village of this beast, tricking him as he laid to rest in our wedding bed,” the no-longer-maiden replied.
“But,” another spoke, “one who resorts to lies cannot be a hero.”
The no-longer-maiden considered this, before responding, “Well, I did not lie to the bog man. I vowed that I would hold him until the dark hand of death parted us. My hands carried death when I held his neck and twisted it, snapping it to free myself from the vows.”
Another villager stepped forward. “But, one who has committed murder, and at that, committed mariticide, cannot be a hero.”
“But a hero makes sacrifices. Does that not include sacrificing purity? And even if I am not your hero, I have slain the beast and freed the village and myself,” the no-longer maiden retorted. “Do you need an oracle to create your blessings?”
The villagers muttered amongst themselves. They struggled to find another argument for their doubt until a wise elder of the people stepped forward. “Even if you are the hero of the prophecy, or the prophecy was a lie, you have still sacrificed your purity and more ways than one. You have lost your maidenhood and can no longer marry, and, even so, who would wish to associate with a murderer and betrayer? You will have no goodness in your life and will find yourself destitute and lonely forevermore.”
The villagers nodded and murmured in affirmation of this point. How could a lady be happy without a family, with shame on her conscience and a stain on her purity? Indeed, this was the best punishment for a betrayer and one who risked others for her pride.
But the girl surprised the village with a snort, the loud sound cascading into bubbles of laughter. “Well, I don’t need anyone but myself to make me happy. Would I be happier with a man who I do not love, who would extinguish me and all that I know if I did not pretend to love him back? Would I be happier living in a place that believes my joy to be a token to exchange for their own, a place where care is conditional and judgment is given without empathy? Would I be happy with another if I cannot be happy on my own? I have become a hero to myself and to this land, despite your interpretations of the prophecy. How can you allow the women of this village to be imprisoned in a life of servitude to a monster, to be forced into loneliness and the lovelessness that you claim to fight against? You sacrifice my happiness to maintain your fear and hate, and so I must take my leave to find someone who finds value in my soul and my quest.”
The woman who found freedom set out, carrying with her only her resolve and the spirits of the maidens before her, with dresses of river water and locks of ebony bark. She felt the breeze drift on the skin of her forearms, tasted freedom on her tongue, and set off to find her own joy.
The great creature came to the small village every three years to attack and feed on the people of the village. The people accepted this because an oracle had told them to await a noble hero who would fell the creature and save the village from its destruction.
One time, however, the creature of the bog came for a more diplomatic visit. This visit was during the daylight, and the people could make out more than just the bog-man's hulking silhouette. Rough, rock-like skin, greenish tusks and talons, yellow-eyes. But bipedal, walking in a way almost human. As the villagers stared, he told them he required a maiden sacrifice. He would not disturb the village until her death, when he would return to his pattern.
Warily, the villagers accepted, sent a maiden with a dress the silvery-blue of the racing rivers, and had a decade of peace to train the candidates for their noble hero as the river girl dined each night at the beast's table.
However, when the creature returned, the villagers were still not ready. The bog creature asked again for a maiden and offered peace until she died.
The villagers, once again, apprehensively sent the creature a new young maiden with locks as dark as the ebony branches. With this maiden's departure, two decades of peace were spent training their possible noble heroes as the ebony-haired girl slept each night holed away in the beast's cave.
The creature returned once more and, this time, the villagers had a maiden ready for the sacrifice. “Here is a maiden, great bog-man,” they said. “May she satisfy your needs until her death.”
The creature accepted and took the maiden with him to his bog.
The third maiden observed the trail, glancing at the greying bones littering the way to the bog and the torn fabrics and charms left by past meals. Her eyes avoided the jaundiced gaze of the beast and the sharp hands he led her with. She memorized the path as best she could and dropped a copper coin - glinting in the sunlight despite its greening material - when the forest’s edge left her vision.
When the beast and the maiden arrived at the bog, he showed her a stone bench on which to wait. She obeyed, though shivered at the slab beneath. Like the bones on the trail and the bog itself, the stone bench was rough and grey and unforgivingly cold.
The creature returned and brought with him a lace embroidered veil and a dusty brown leather scroll of vows. The beast and the maiden wed and exchanged their words.
They swore on the same vows the village used - to hold each other no matter the circumstance until death found them.
The newlywed couple laid to rest in their wedding bed. The forest darkened alongside the gaze of the beast. His gold eyes set upon his new wife and she trembled in both fear and determination.
The next day, the villagers were shocked to see the return of the no-longer-maiden. She dragged behind her the twisted and deformed corpse of the beast of the bog. “I have slain the bog-man,” she told them.
The villagers exchanged confounded glances, agog at her return. “But the oracle told us a hero would be the one to free us of this beast,” a man in the crowd murmured.
“Well, I have freed this village of this beast, tricking him as he laid to rest in our wedding bed,” the no-longer-maiden replied.
“But,” another spoke, “one who resorts to lies cannot be a hero.”
The no-longer-maiden considered this, before responding, “Well, I did not lie to the bog man. I vowed that I would hold him until the dark hand of death parted us. My hands carried death when I held his neck and twisted it, snapping it to free myself from the vows.”
Another villager stepped forward. “But, one who has committed murder, and at that, committed mariticide, cannot be a hero.”
“But a hero makes sacrifices. Does that not include sacrificing purity? And even if I am not your hero, I have slain the beast and freed the village and myself,” the no-longer maiden retorted. “Do you need an oracle to create your blessings?”
The villagers muttered amongst themselves. They struggled to find another argument for their doubt until a wise elder of the people stepped forward. “Even if you are the hero of the prophecy, or the prophecy was a lie, you have still sacrificed your purity and more ways than one. You have lost your maidenhood and can no longer marry, and, even so, who would wish to associate with a murderer and betrayer? You will have no goodness in your life and will find yourself destitute and lonely forevermore.”
The villagers nodded and murmured in affirmation of this point. How could a lady be happy without a family, with shame on her conscience and a stain on her purity? Indeed, this was the best punishment for a betrayer and one who risked others for her pride.
But the girl surprised the village with a snort, the loud sound cascading into bubbles of laughter. “Well, I don’t need anyone but myself to make me happy. Would I be happier with a man who I do not love, who would extinguish me and all that I know if I did not pretend to love him back? Would I be happier living in a place that believes my joy to be a token to exchange for their own, a place where care is conditional and judgment is given without empathy? Would I be happy with another if I cannot be happy on my own? I have become a hero to myself and to this land, despite your interpretations of the prophecy. How can you allow the women of this village to be imprisoned in a life of servitude to a monster, to be forced into loneliness and the lovelessness that you claim to fight against? You sacrifice my happiness to maintain your fear and hate, and so I must take my leave to find someone who finds value in my soul and my quest.”
The woman who found freedom set out, carrying with her only her resolve and the spirits of the maidens before her, with dresses of river water and locks of ebony bark. She felt the breeze drift on the skin of her forearms, tasted freedom on her tongue, and set off to find her own joy.