There once was a miller, his wife and their daughter. There’d been a time when life had been grand, wealth had flowed like milk and the wheel of the mill had merrily creaked. But all that was long ago. On the day our story begins, the miller was a mile from home, out in the dark wood. It was dusk, and he was gathering kindling for the fire. In his scratching for survival, he didn’t notice he’d caught someone’s attention. From behind a tree appeared a man, a very small man, pale skin, the brim of a hat covering much of his face. The watcher spoke:
‘Miller, miller miller. It pains me to see you in this situation. Truly it does. I remember what good you’ve done in the village, the parties you’ve held, the drinks you’ve poured, the poor you’ve aided. And to see you here today, scavenging in the grasses for twigs. It’s degrading, especially for a man of such status. I can’t bear it, and I can’t imagine how you feel about it.’
The miller glanced up for a second and let the cooing land on him. He blinked rapidly in the disappearing light, and the small man continued:
‘As a fellow of the wood, I have magic in me. Powerful magic. I’ll tell you what, dear miller. As your biggest supporter, let me endorse you. I am going to reverse your bad fortune. From this moment on, anything you desire you can have. Just think it and it’s there. The good times are coming back. You and your family will be rich again.’
He now had the miller’s full attention, and he piped up:
‘I love this idea. Gods I do. But what would you want in return?You must want something.’
At this, the fellow of the wood looked thoughtful, as if such a thing hadn’t occurred to him.
‘Well, for the sheer etiquette of the spell, I suppose I should take some trinket. It is endless wealth I am giving you, after all. I tell you what: in exchange for all those riches, I will take everything that is behind your hovel at this moment.’
The miller thought for a second: all that was there was an apple tree. Nothing of any significance. I mean, this was the deal of his life.
‘Absolutely, I agree. Whatever is behind the home at this moment, you may have.’
At this, a shriek came from the pale man, which he quickly muffled.
‘Oh, good for you, good for you. I’m delighted to have helped. My spell will be immediate, from this moment, wealth is running back towards you. Scampering, singing, wending its way towards you. I will come next Thursday, to give you a few days to think about the deal, and exactly whom you may have struck it with.’
And with that, he slipped back into the trees, an odd perfume remaining.
It was almost entirely dark.
Even as he walked back to his home, in the gloom he could see his wife coming towards him, walking fast over the fields, her rough, itchy skirt replaced by an elegant dress, pearls at her neck.
‘Husband! Husband! It’s a miracle. The kitchen is filled with hocks of ham, strings of onions and garlic, lamb, freshly baked bread, cream cakes and good wine in the cellar. There are paintings hanging on the walls, stacked wood by the fire, a fine new jacket and waistcoat for you all laid out on the bed. How could this happen?’
‘Ah, details, details! Now where is our daughter, so she may share in our good fortune?’
‘Why, husband, how could you even ask that question?’
‘She’s where she always is.’
Behind the house Under the apple tree Sweeping back and forth
It was then, and only then, did the miller realize the deal he’d struck, and quite whom he’d struck it with.
The daughter took the news soberly, almost as if she expected it. Even as the affluence came raining down, she seemed to withdraw into herself. Amongst all the frivolity, she was focused on something no one else could quite see. On the day the man of the wood arrived to collect, she bathed, put on a white dress, and drew a chalk circle around her. She stood calmly at the circle’s centre, and gazed levelly at him.
It was the strangest thing. No matter how he tried, he could not enter the circle. He dodged this way and even leapt frantically in the air, but he simply could not enter her circle. After twenty minutes he was spent.
‘Miller,’ he wheezed, ‘this was not the arrangement. Not the deal at all. She’s too clean, too pristine, too contained. I can’t bend her. I will return in one week’s time and expect her muddied by this world: grimy, bedraggled, broken even. I’ll have no problem whisking her off then.’
Feeling the unmentioned threat of consequence, the miller forbade his daughter to bathe, removed the chalk, encouraged her to rub mud on her skin, weave twigs and ivy in her hair, to stink. He and his wife took no pleasure in this, but were simply terrified. This is called being in way over your head.
The day came and shuffling down from the treeline came the pale man with the hat covering half his face. He initially looked pleased at the state of the girl, but as he walked towards her, she started to cry, to really weep. Not tears of fear, but of grief. She wept as we weep once or twice in our life. Tears that carry amniotic fluid and sea salt and the dreams of the sires in them. Tears that push all before them, that hurl truth, sorrow and defiance into this world, all at once. As she wept, she wiped the tears over her bruised and muddied body. As the tears made tracks, her skin started to gleam. Clean and bright again.
Oh, and so moon bright it was, it was as if that chalk circle had returned. For the second time, the creature could not get his hands on the girl.
‘Miller,’ he snarled, ‘this was not our arrangement. I wanted the smear of the world on her, depressed and filthy. She’s not depressed, she’s grieving. It’s the hands. It’s her hands that reach out towards joy and fulfillment, that wiped her body clean with those tears. Get rid of them. Take a silver axe and cut her hands off. You must do it. And if you don’t, not only will the wealth disappear, I will bring a killing blight to the village, and your name will be ruined. This is your very last chance.’
As he angrily walked away, the daughter turned to the miller and said this:
You were my gatekeeper, And you let in the wolf. ‘Do it.’
The silver axe was gathered, and with all his might, the miller brought the axe down on his daughter’s wrists.
A week later the being loped from the woods a third time. He saw the Handless Maiden’s stumps and rejoiced. He saw the destroyed miller, the emaciated mother, and he rejoiced. He peered and sniffed and spat on the ground. And for a second time she started to weep, and it was as if those tears had an agency of their own, they moved around the girl’s body without even the use of hands; like lively rivers, surging creeks, sparkling streams. There were salmon in those tears, deep-sea secrets, the defiance of the shipwrecked. The tears washed her clean again, top and bottom, resplendent.
She stuck her chin up. Fuck you.
Well, even fellows of the woods seem to know you have to give up on the third attempt. It’s just a thing.
Muttering curses we can’t quite decipher, he turned and shuffled across the darkening. An odd detail: the strangest thing was that the wealth continued, the deal didn’t break. And no curse on the house. Except maybe the worst.
One night, whilst her parents feasted, the Handless Maiden slipped away into the dark forest.
You were my gatekeeper, And you let in the wolf.
When an old story says she wandered for four days in the forest, that could be four months or years. And wander she did. In circles mostly. There were no fellow travelers, no cheery firesides, no tales of encouragement and fortitude. The only trail she encountered was the one she made by walking it. When she slept, her dreams were sour and disorienting; when she woke, she rarely knew where she was. All streams were sluggish, water brackish, and it’s hard to hunt when you have no hands. Occasionally a bird would leave a little something to chew on. She’d gratefully gobble it down, belly tight and diminished, stuck to spine like a tight little drum. The forest had at her, from every direction. After a time you’d be hard-pressed to tell if she was a woman, a spirit of the forest, a wolf, so altered was she. The trunks of the trees were like prison bars, and she longed for a wide, open view. But, like her father the miller, she had to keep her eyes close to the ground, looking for kindling. It was a diminished world she peered out at.
For a long time, it stayed like this, exactly like this.
One night she was suddenly at the other side of the forest. There had been no warning, no preamble, but there she was. The trees were behind her, and in the night sky was a vast yellow moon, full as the face of a coin. Underneath the moon was a castle, an orchard and, surrounding both, a moat. She could see the trees were swollen with apples and pears, even from a distance. Oh, she was desirous of such fruit. It made her skip foot to calloused foot, imagining their taste. Even as she had the sensation, she felt cautious to leave the shelter of the trees. So strange—all she’d done was fantasize about leaving, and now she hesitated. But in the end, both hunger and curiosity prevailed and she stalked her way down to the moat.
They say that the waters of the moat parted for her, a Red Sea moment. They say that trees shuffled forward in the dark earth, such was their ambition to feed her. They say she reached up with her bandaged stumps and pulled down a pear. When she’d consumed it, caution moved through her again and she scuttled back to the treeline. Not into its depths but at the edge of both the royal lands and the forest.
She’d been spotted, glimpsed by a gardener who worked by the moon, not the sun. He’d seen the strange unfolding. He wondered at it all, and next day reported it to the king, a young man who loved unusual stories. The king had the habit of many sovereigns, which was to count his fruit every morning, and he’d noticed one was missing. Well, this was the gardener’s moment, so he told the story with full aplomb, and the two of them elected to go back to the orchard that very night and see if she returned.
She did, and the king asked her, gently and with full curiosity, quite who or what she was: a woman, a spirit of the forest, a wolf? She thought on it, chewed on it, bent her soul to it and replied:
‘I’m not sure. I’ve spent so very long in the forest I just don’t know anymore’
That’s the response of a grown woman.
Some say the king fell in love with the Handless Maiden despite the wild hair, wolfish stance, circling crows. I tell you that’s nonsense. The king fell in love with her because of the wild hair, wolfish stance, circling crows. He thought she was the most fascinating creature he’d ever met.
The king offered her quarters in the castle, plenty of space to rest and gather herself, and she accepted. She could see the forest from her bedroom window and felt sufficiently recovered to enjoy this next stage in her journey. Journey to quite what, she had no idea. It won’t surprise you that every day, the lovestruck young king would take a little tea to her door, maybe some musicians, good food. He adored her. He started to work on Poetry of varying quality, and one day his heart forced him to make his big gesture, standing before her and saying:
In your bright braided tresses There is a flock of songbirds, Your eyes are like keen crystal, Set in a ring.
Your cheek is red like the coal of a fire, And your mouth speaks old words, Like the road of a waterfall.
You are whiter than the swan on the pool, More tuneful than the fiddle, You are a ship on a mistless wave.
When I saw you, I thought the moon herself had Fallen into a bed of wild flowers
And was singing an old song I had waited my whole life To hear.
She fell ardently into the fur of his words, and a love affair began. The castle was a place of fresh, sparky life and laughter, the king’s mother adored the young woman and it’s wasn’t too long before before a marriage proposal spilled from the mouth of the king. She accepted.
As a wedding gift, her husband gave the Handless Maiden the one thing she clearly did not have—a pair of hands, painstakingly crafted from silver—meant quite sincerely. She felt his good will, but rarely wore them.
After a time she felt different: expanded, assaulted, blessed. She was pregant.
She would sit by the fire with her husband, deerhounds at their feet as they speculated on this new life growing inside her. They tried out baby names and giggled into the small hours. So deep the bliss, it was a vile wrench when the king was called to war at the edge of the kingdom. It was his first war, and the eyes of his people were on him to prove himself. He had to lead from the front. He left with heavy heart and the condition that if his wife were to give birth in his absence, the castle was to send their speediest rider to him to relay the news to wherever he may be fighting.
Though she missed her husband, the pregnancy went well and the Handless Maiden gave birth to a cherubic little boy. Happy hands, happy feet, merry little face, ready for mischief. The speediest rider was sent for and he sped out over the drawbridge, seeking the king.
After a time, it just so happened the rider found himself back in the woods where our story began. And the strangest thing came over him. A fatigue, a walloping exhaustion, a deep, mysterious drowsiness. He leant up against an oak and rested, his horse munching grass. He was barely conscious—almost dreaming—when a small, pale man with a large hat slipped out from behind a tree and spoke:
‘Speedy rider. You will tell the king an abomination has occurred. That the queen has not given birth to either a boy or a girl, but a dog, a terrible hound. That’s what you get when you marry a woman of the forest. Tell him this news.’
The speedy rider woke from his trance, took in the message and rode like the devil to the tent of the king. The king urgently received the rider and listened to the message intently. He grew quiet and looked out over the battlefield, gazing at the piles of dead warriors who would never see their families or homes again. He chewed hard on his thinking. Finally he turned:
‘Though this is not the news I expected, still I welcome it. Whatever has come from my wife’s womb will be loved by me, whatever its shape. Tell my beloved that I am humbled that she is so delightfully full of surprises, that I will be back the moment I can, and that my heart bangs wild under my breastplate with joy.’
After some venison and beer, the rider rode back over the heath and into the forest with the message, wondering at the maturity of the king. Ah, but after a time, a weariness came over him, didn’t it? A need to rest by the old oak tree, under its lush bough. His horse munching grass, he barely noticed when a small, pale man with a large hat slipped out from behind the very tree he was slumped against:
‘Speedy rider. You will tell the queen mother that he is appalled that such a demonic abomination has occurred, that he will not suffer it to live, nor his witch wife. That he expects the heart and tongue of his wife presented to him on a plate on his return from the war. Tell her this news.’
The speedy rider woke from his trance and rode like the devil to the castle of the queen mother. The queen mother heard the message and grew quiet, looking out the window a time before she spoke.
‘It is clear that the brutality of war has sent my child utterly mad. This is ludicrous and nothing of the sort is going to take place. However, what is clear is that my daughter-in-law and my grandson are no longer safe. Please summon them.’
When they were all gathered together, the queen mother told the Handless Maiden a hard thing. That she and her son would have to venture back out into the forest until this horrible episode was cleared up and it was safe for her to return. At this, the maiden wept, shuddered and grew pale at the thought. But her mother-in-law was sage and kind, saying:
‘I know, I know. But I tell you this. The dark forest is never quite the same the second time around. Believe me. It isn’t and it won’t be. Take courage, gather yourself, and you will surprise yourself. But for now, it is urgent that you leave.’
Early the next morning, a hat concealing most of her face, the maiden and her child slipped into the treeline and disappeared.
Never quite the same the second time.
Towards the end of the day, the maiden did indeed see something she’d never set eyes on before in the forest: a friendly trail of smoke. Someone was out here too. Someone else was surviving in this environment. She followed the smoke, baby in her arms, till she saw its source. It was coming from the chimney of a rustic cottage.
She could hear rascal laughter, cheery singing, so she peered through the window. She could see women, many women, of all ages. Some were gathered by the fire, some knitting, some cooking, gossiping—the mood seemed wonderful. They spotted her peering in, and the door was swiftly opened. She was emphatically gathered in, with all cooing over the moon-faced babe. From the moment she sat with them and powerfully recounted her story, it was clear she found a new home, in the exact place that she was terrified to go. These stalwart women were called the Wood Sisters, and gathered under their shawls, they had a great understanding of the inner rhythms of the forest. Things grow in a cottage like that, things get better, even cautiously recover.
And a great wonder happened A joy beyond reckoning
She started to grow her hands back. Bit by bit. It could have been the first time she defended her child or stood naked in the storm, or wrestled a root from the soil, but she started to heal, right there. Not a solitary hero fighting a dragon, but right there in the fine company of the Wood Sister. And it is a powerful thing for a young lad to grow with a cackling flank of jubilant aunties around him. For some years it continued like that, lively and restorative, but I cannot tell you that the maiden did not wonder what happened to her husband. I cannot tell you she didn’t gaze out at dusk, make a bed for her sorrow.
And what of her husband? When he returned, jubilant and expectant to meet his wife and dog-child, he was stricken with terror when presented with the heart and tongue on the plate (those of a doe). When his mother saw that there must have been subterfuge in the messaging back and forth, she told her son everything:
‘And now she and your boy are out there in the forest. It is up to you to find them. I thought they had to go there for their own protection. But now I wonder if it is indeed you who needs to go there. I’d always wondered on the imbalance of forest knowledge between you and your dear wife. It is your turn for the great wandering, my dear son, and I wish you wisdom and protection as you go.’
Having not even removed his mud-caked cloak, he sword and belt, the king turned from his mother and rode wearily alone into the forest. He did not behold the trail of smoke on the first day, or the second, or the third. He beheld sodden flanks of branch and leaf, drizzling mists, tracks that led nowhere. He beheld nightmares, blustering and endless snowstorms, ravenous black bears, and any number of sorrows hanging on him from the battlefield. A year turned into two into three and onwards. After seven years, his hair and beard fell to his waist, hands nicked and scarred, barely recognizable from the buoyant young sovereign of years past. There was a weight to him, a seriousness. A still he searched, way past the time when most of us would have retired from such a hopeless cause.
But comes a day comes a day comes a day When he saw the blue smoke A cottage, the sound of laughter, and singing
Male voices, low and jovial, of all ages. He caught the scent of cherry tobacco and thought he recognized a folk song. He weakly knocked on the door—just a tap—and it swung open. He was gleefully gathered in by the me, sat by the fire, a bowl of elk stew and crusty buttered bread, a pint of dark beer. Paradise comes in many forms. And he asked:
‘Have you heard of a woman and child, coming this way?’
‘Oh, we have, we have. We are the Wood Brothers, and they live with the women we adore, the Wood Sisters, just a mile or so away.’
Word was speedily sent to the women’s cottage, and by the end of the day, the men could hear the women approaching, singing and dancing, all dressed up top to toe, abundant in their finery. The men had scrubbed up well and encouraged each other to be bold in the magnificence of the women. At some point, the tones of the women and the men’s singing joined into something quite wonderful. And the Woman Who Grew Her Own Hands Back was reunited with the Man of the Deep Places.
For a moment, a veil was held between them, by the oldest woman and oldest man, and then it was dropped.
And for just a second, they saw each other as God sees them.
Just a second, but that beholding can be long enough to sustain a marriage when the road is long, awfully twisty and occasionally more than a little mad.
If there was any joy left to attain in the king’s heart, he just about exploded when he looked down and saw his lad holding on to his belt, smiling up at him. He gathered him up weeping, then gazed in wonder at his wife’s beautiful, restored hands. She smiled:
‘I’ll tell you about them later.’
Of course there was then days of feasting, and everyone fell in love with each other, even the long married. It was a long and happy life for our three.
And how do we know this story at all?
The son of the two of them became a storyteller, and wandered the courts and firesides of old Europe telling the story of a woman who grew her own hands back and a father who never gave up. And he told someone, who told someone else, who told someone else, and I find myself telling the story to you here today.
And I ask you:
What are you going to do with it?
↩ Riffing on