The White Lady

Halloween Release 2013: a fable/myth/legend-like story about the white lady.

There was a legend, far in the northern continent, where flowers would never bloom lest it was summer. Where a single trickle of sweat would be a very rare occurrence, and a full day worth of labor would not make our lungs swell. The cold air froze even the inviting flames of the fireplace. The water was solid, and the foliage was as white as the pouring snow�"where the lands were covered in eternal blizzards. Spoken in foreign tongue, a tale of unknown origin, unbeknownst to whoever the storyteller; a sorrowful tale of the white lady.

By the 31st night of the tenth month each passing year, a single lady dressed in white would come visit the nearby villages, pleading for a basket of bread or a glass of warm milk. Please, she said, her voice ever so ethereal. Her children needed it. Her snowy flesh and blood would never shelter those children from the blizzard. They needed warmth. Again and again did she knock each wooden door, but to no avail.

The doors were closed. The lights were unlit. And the city ignored her plea.

The chanting of the villagers chased out the white lady:

‘Oh furious maiden of ice and snow, render thy bones in ashes and leave this city of men at once. Return to the mountains, return to thy slumber, return to the mountain’s silver embrace. Oh flames of eternal light and warmth, ward off this vile vermin, protect us in thine everlasting embrace. Give our children warmth.’

And so she returned to the mountains while crying, each passing year. The sound of her cries echoed through the white mountain, wailing because of those who feigned ignorance.

Yet this continued for a long, long time. Long enough so the trees forgot. Long enough for the soil to dampen and release their memories of why the white lady came in the first place.

In another 31st night of the tenth month, the white lady found something different when she came down the mountains.

A man stood by the entrance. His sword buckled on his sides. His quiver and bow tucked behind him. His eyes filled with awe and admiration, his left hand carrying a basketful of warm bread.

‘Oh furious maiden of ice and snow,’ he said. ‘I have brought thee thy plea. Take this bread and return to the silver mountains.’

The white lady took the bread and nodded in response.

‘Thank you, brave warrior. Thank you.’ The white lady curtsied and smiled. She gave the man one last curtsy and went away, back to the mountains.

The warrior was stunned by what he saw. The white lady was beautiful�"even more beautiful than the princess of a foreign land he met several months prior. Her hair were strands of silver locks, her smile was a blow of fresh powder snow to his scorching heart. His heart was set�"he was going to make the white lady his bride.

And so, he returned to the northern village the next year, a basketful of bread in his left hand, a bouquet of wilting flower in his right.

The white lady came like she always did, on the 31st night of the tenth month, pleading for a basket of bread or a glass of warm milk. Please, she said, her voice ever so ethereal. Her children needed it. Her snowy flesh and blood would never shelter those children from the blizzard. They needed warmth.

‘Oh fair maiden of frozen beauty,’ hailed the warrior, fallen too deeply in love. ‘I have brought thee my offerings. May I be so prudent to ask for thy hands?’

The white lady took the bread and nodded in response.

‘Thank you, brave warrior. Thank you.’ The white lady curtsied and smiled. She gave the man one last curtsy and went away, back to the mountains.

‘Wait, my lady!’ the man halted the white lady. ‘The mountain roads are dangerous at night. I shall accompany thee.’

‘Thy sword will not protect thee. Thine arrows will pierce through nothing. Go back to the village of men, oh brave warrior…’

The warrior felt a twinge of fear in his heart when he heard the white lady turned down his offer politely. Yet his pride was scarred, and he wanted to prove his usefulness to the woman he loved. He shook his head and insisted that he should go with her.

‘I want to meet thy children. I want to marry thee�"and thy shall bear my own children as well.’

The white lady shook her head once again, and offered one of the bread she received to the shivering warrior.

‘Thy sword will not protect thee. Thine arrows will pierce through nothing. Go back to the village of men, oh brave warrior…’ she said once again.

Her feet had walked but a distance to the snowy fields of the silver mountain, when the warrior followed her in each footstep. Knowing fully well that the warrior would not turn back no matter what she say, the white lady let him follow her, through the long, long, snowy road. Climbing up the mountainside, crossing the fields of sharp icy rocks, and up to the peak of the silver mountain.

There, the warrior found no cottage. He found no children to eat the bread, nor infants to drink any milk. On the peak of the silver mountain was the white lady, and a big boulder of ice where she lay down the basketful of bread, and the basket from last year’s, and dozens of other baskets and bottles of milk, covered in thin layers of ice.

‘Thy sword will not protect thee. Thine arrows will pierce through nothing…’ the white lady chanted under her breath.

The white lady turned, and approached the warrior.

‘Oh white lady, ever so ethereal and delicate. Let me be the one to caress thee every night. I wish to marry thee.’

The white lady obliged, and kissed the warrior on his lip.

The warrior never returned to the village of men.

***

There was a legend, far in the northern continent, where flowers would never bloom lest it was summer. Where a single trickle of sweat would be a very rare occurrence, and a full day worth of labor would not make our lungs swell. The cold air froze even the inviting flames of the fireplace. The water was solid, and the foliage was as white as the pouring snow�"where the lands were covered in eternal blizzards. Spoken in foreign tongue, a tale of unknown origin, unbeknownst to whoever the storyteller; a sorrowful tale of the white lady.

By the 31st night of the tenth month each passing year, a single lady dressed in white would come visit the nearby villages, pleading for a basket of bread or a glass of warm milk. Please, she said, her voice ever so ethereal. Her children needed it. Her snowy flesh and blood would never shelter those children from the blizzard. They needed warmth. Again and again did she knock each wooden door, but to no avail.

The doors were closed. The lights were unlit. And the city ignored her plea.

The chanting of the villagers chased out the white lady:

‘Oh furious maiden of ice and snow, render thy bones in ashes and leave this city of men at once. Return to the mountains, return to thy slumber, return to the mountain’s silver embrace. Oh flames of eternal light and warmth, ward off this vile vermin, protect us in thine everlasting embrace. Give our children warmth.’

Please, she said.

Her husband needs it.

Author's Note

what do you think of the word selections? You can watch the video version of this (dubbed by yours truly) here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=jOvk6dtvVl4

Reviews

[Douglas White]

This was a good tale. The form and tone of the writing perfectly suited the medieval setting, complementing the feel of the story well without being overdone. Well done.