#escrit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pianokantzart · 1 year ago

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I lied. You get THREE chapters of my original story (about 4k words under the cut):

Chapter 1.

Once upon a time there was an old couple that lived in a cottage on the furthest edge of their isolated village within a stones throw of an ancient forest. Behind their home they grew a patch of cabbages they gathered and sold in the fall, and in their front yard they tended a garden of flowers that they cut and sold in the spring. To make ends meet Escrit, the man of the house, worked as a woodcarver while his wife, Realia, worked as a seamstress, spending many an hour repairing, patching, and embroidering whatever was handed to her. When time allowed Escrit and Realia combined their talents to create the most beautiful little toys; for they were without child, and had longed for one since the day they were wed.

Dollhouses, rocking horses, pull toys, tiny sailboats, wooden soldiers, and all sorts of lovingly crafted treasures were stacked high in an unused bedroom, kept clean and carefully dusted in ever-present hope. Many visitors observed the toys with great admiration, sometimes wishing to buy them, but the old couple were loath to part with their creations. Only at Christmas did they make an exception, when they handed out toys to the poorer village children.

As time wore on, Realia took up the habit of placing dolls they made in the window sill, each dressed in their most beautiful gowns so that passersby may note her sewing skills and commission her. One morning Realia awoke to find one of the little dolls robbed of a pretty yellow sundress, and upon examining the doll she was surprised to discover a lovely scarlet ribbon had been tied around her golden hair of straw.

Confused, but pleased to be in possession of such a pretty little ribbon in such a rare and vibrant color, the old woman redressed the doll and placed it back on the window sill while dropping the glittering gift in her own pocket. The next morning two more dolls were stripped of their clothes, one with a silver chain around their wrist while the other bore miniature golden rings on each of her fingers.

Realia went to Escrit with the gifts in hand. She explained the situation and asked for his thoughts on the matter, for he was a man of the woods, well versed in many strange things.

“No doubt something from the forest has taken a liking to your sewing,” he said, lifting the little crimson ribbon in his calloused fingers, “But I suspect they’re friendly if they pay you out of their own volition. Keep an eye on what dresses they like and try to tailor their tastes. I will leave food upon the table to let them know they are welcome.”

And so Realia stayed up a little later each night, sewing dresses to replace every one that went missing while the woodcarver left little meals in the kitchen. She learned that the mysterious visitors preferred dresses of bright colors, loose and flowing, never touching anything in shades of grey or brown, nor anything with tight corsets or buttoned collars. Meanwhile, Escrit discovered that while buttered toast and cups of brandy were only lightly nibbled or sipped, saucers of thick cream and berries were eagerly devoured. Honey proved to be a favorite, and whenever he could get ahold of it he put a little dollop on whatever morsels he left out.

Little bits of treasure continued to show up on the dolls, while household luck took a turn for the better. The cupboard moths and mice disappeared, and the slugs that they had struggled to keep off their garden seemed to all at once lose their taste for cabbage and violets. All the flowers they had seeded bloomed more vibrantly than ever before, and costumers wondered aloud what rich, dark soil laid beneath their cottage to create such incredible colors.

One fair evening, when the moon was full and a bout of warm weather allowed the old couple to leave their window shutters wide open, Escrit stood in the kitchen pouring a fresh dish of cream while his wife sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace, adding the final stitches to a doll’s pea green apron dress. Suddenly, a great flock of magpies soared in from the open window, carrying behind them a float of bluebells and gardenias upon which sat a beautiful fae. Her grand wings, the points of her ears, and the slight lilt to her eyes gave little doubt to her species, but she was far larger than any fae either of them had ever heard of, standing as tall as a two year old child despite being a grown woman in face and figure.

“Ah! The dressmakers!” The fae declared as her chariot slowed to a halt. She sprung to her feet, and the old couple looked upon her in wide-eyed wonder.

“Who are you?” Escrit asked at length. The fae let out a jolly laugh, laying a pearl-white hand upon her chest. “Me? Me!? Why, I am the queen of the fae! And I suggest you kneel and ask forgiveness for asking stupid questions, before I call upon the birds to pluck out your eyes!”

Despite the violence of the threat, her tone was so jovial that it was hard to tell if she was being sincere. Escrit and his wife knelt anyway, for the suggestion of a royal was rarely something to be disregarded.

“A thousand pardons,” Realia said with an extra bow of her head, “we just never expected our humble home to be blessed with the presence of a queen.”

“Well you should have! I had no choice, given you continue to make nothing that fits my size.” The fae queen stomped a little bare foot upon the floorboards. “It is not fair! All of my subjects keep appearing before me in adorable little dresses, and yet I have none for myself!”

And so it was. Beneath her little crown of daisies, a gown of chestnut leaves and bluestem grass clung precariously to her body by spiderweb seams. The whole attire– thrown together for sake of formality – was already on the verge of falling apart.

“We never before needed clothes, so none of us know a thing about sewing.” The fae queen explained, “But the moment your dresses were spotted in the window and carried to the fen, my subjects couldn’t talk about anything else, and yet I alone could not have any part of their fun!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend for you to feel neglected.” The old seamstress apologized, “I could make something your size if you wish. Just tell me what sort of dress you would like, and I will get to work right away.”

The Fae queen smiled wide, her giant blue eyes shimmering until they almost glowed.

“Oh! My dress must be elegant, yet grandiose! With a long train and a tall collar!” She declared, “It must be a purple so deep that it makes the cornflowers look grey! It must be stitched and embroidered with thread of pure silver, so I may shine as bright as the stars!”

Realia was silent for a moment. She wrung her hands, then spoke again.

“Begging your pardon, your majesty. I would like nothing more than to make you a gown so beautiful, but the only ones who can create purple cloth are the royal dressmakers, and I doubt they would sell the dye to a commoner. Moreover, I have never heard of a workable thread made of pure silver, I don’t even begin to know where to get it or how one would make it!”

But the fairy queen would hear none of it. Giving another stomp, she cried out.

“It must be! It must be! I must have the entire forest enchanted by the beauty, wealth, and purity, represented by my gown. Since it is the beginning of May, I’ll give you until the end of September. Finish by then, and I will happily grant you any wish your heart desires!”

At this, the woodcutter and his wife looked at each other with knowing eyes, silently agreeing on the same desire that had plagued their every waking moment since the day they wed.

“If your are certain you can grant any wish,” Escrit began, “My wife and I have been trying for a child for some time–”

“Oh, that old ask!” The fae queen interrupted with a giggle, waving her hand dismissively. “Yes yes. If you make the dress to my liking, you will have your baby.”

So it was done. Realia took the fae queen’s measurements while her husband fed the royal magpies from sacks of barley grain. Then, the queen left the way she came in a flutter of sparks, so sudden that the couple may have thought it nothing but a dream had it not been for the piles of petals and feathers she had left on the floor in her wake.

Chapter 2.

When morning broke the next day Escrit dressed in his sturdiest clothes, packed a sack of supplies, gave Realiah a kiss, and set off on his journey with many tears and goodbyes between them. He moved Northward at a hurried pace, and when the sunset fell he set up camp at the roadside and slept deeply until the next day. At dawn he took to the road with an aching back, but marched on through the forest that only grew denser by the time night fell again. On the third day he marched along with a growing homesickness. He spoke with whatever animal crossed his path in hopes of finding company– but the squirrels and sparrows that happened his way dared not linger long at the roadside, bidding him farewell as soon as he said “hello.” At length, Escrit was greatly pleased to come across the lone figure of a man just off the path, gathering firewood in a grassy clearing. “Hello!” Escrit hailed, “How much further to the next town?”

The stranger stood up and turned to face him. The man was dressed in a robe of goat’s hair, and bore a long untrimmed beard that hung down to his waist. He placed a finger against his lips, signaling his unwillingness to speak, but signed a blessing over Escrit as he walked past. Escrit quickly recognized the man as a hermit, and though it was a great disappointment he dared not talk to him further in honor of his vow of silence.

Later on, Escrit considered the brief glimpse of human life, and decided to veer off of the winding path and forge straight north through the trees, hoping to reconnect to the path further along. But the dense forest was nothing like the open oaks that surrounded his little cottage at home, and the hostile brambles both slowed his steps and twisted him around in all directions. By the time the sun was starting to set Escrit was hopelessly lost.

Forlorn, he sat down upon a fallen log, placed his head in his hands, and wondered what to do.

“You best getta’ move on old one!” Chittered a voice from the canopy. Escrit looked up to see a barn swallow in a nearby tree. “Night’s gettin’ on.” The swallow called, “You best head back to your home before the wolves come ‘round.”

“I would if that were possible.” The Woodcarver admitted, “For the past three nights I have camped by the road where the wolves rarely venture, but I left the path some time back. Now I have no option but to find a safe place to hide myself away until morning.”

The barn swallow curiously cocked her little head.

“Poor, silly man.” She tittered “What took ya’ down that long road to begin with?”

“My wife has been commissioned by the fae queen to make her a dress.” Escrit explained, “Her highness wants a gown of purple fabric, sewn and embroidered with silver thread. There are no such materials where I live, so I am traveling to the capital in hopes of finding everything she needs.”

“Hmm, well, I don’t know anythin’ about fabrics.” The swallow admitted, “but I have nested in the porch ceilin’ of an old hut, and in the window I happen to spot the homeowner spinnin’ silver into spools of thread.”

With that, the barn swallow leapt from its perch and flitted from bow to bow, heading deeper into the woods. “Follow me, traveler, seein’ as I’m heading home anyways,” it called over its shoulder. “That hut should at least serve as a shelter from the wolves.”

Escrit plucked up his pack and hurried after the bird. He weaved through undergrowth, the barn swallow pausing every few moments to allow the old man to catch up until the two broke from the line of trees into a clearing beneath a broad orange sky, where a rickety gate surrounded a swath of land, and at its center sat the promised thatch hut with a jagged, smoking chimney stretching up toward the sky. The barn swallow chirped proudly, then darted forward out of sight to return to her nest. The Woodcarver carefully creaked the gate open. He tiptoed along, wishing to call out to the homeowner, but an innate fear gripped his heart and held his tongue with each new oddity he spied. Every tree within the fence-line was long dead and all covered in frowning poppets, held to the bark by headless pins. The only signs of life were the henbane, hogweed, and nightshade that grew in wild clumps along the path toward the hut, and the black beetles that scuttled about until a wicked cackle rang through the air, followed by a wind that smelled of sulfur and rot. Nearly knocked off of his feet, Escrit looked skyward as a witch rode through the air atop a broomstick. He turned and tried to run, but the enchanted broom overtook him with the speed of lightning, a bony hand plucked him by the shirt collar with a grip of iron, and he was carried through the air and hung up on a long, black tree branch. “Who goes? The devil knows!” The Witch laughed as she dismounted, tickled by the sight of her dangling captive. She sniffed the air with a needly nose, and grimaced a mouth of corn-yellow teeth. “It is neither little boy, nor little girl, but an old man! What good does he serve except as a bit of meat to add to a cooking pot!”

Escrit shook in terror, writhing in his effort to free himself from the tree branch. “Please don’t eat me!” He pled, “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I am a skilled woodcarver. I will gladly build you whatever you like if you will only spare my life.”

The Witch examined The Woodcarver up and down, her hungry expression pinching into one of thought.

“Ah, then providence brings you to my doorstep!” she said. “Count yourself lucky that your talents are specific to my wishes, or I would make a broth of your bones.” The witch clapped her hands. The branch that held The Woodcarver snapped, dropping him to the ground. Before he could recover himself The Witch took his arm with the speed of a spirit and wrapped a length of thistles around his wrist. The moment the plant’s thorns dug into his skin The Woodcarver felt himself shrink. His teeth shifted and grew, the hair of his body thickened and spread, and next he knew he was no longer a woodcarver at all, but a scraggly beaver.

“What is this?” Escrit asked, looking himself over with wide eyes. “What good can I be to you as a beaver?” The Witch didn’t answer at first. She grabbed him by his tail and lifted him from the ground, staring into his face with flashing eyes as she spoke an enchantment:

“I am Dirga of the deep dark wood. I spare no bed, I share no food. While the sun still lights the day, you may wander where you may to dig and forage, hunt and feast– the same as any wild beast. But when darkness falls across the land, you’ll once again become a man and if you still roam about at night, or if you dare speak of your plight your flesh of thorns will round you rend, to halt your heart and mark your end.”

As she spoke the final line, The Witch ran a long yellow fingernail over the enchanted thistles still clinging to The Beaver’s wrist, marking her threat.

Dirga carried Escrit to a rickety shed behind her hut, and flung the door open. In one corner was a large table bearing a whittling knife, a chisel, and an old oil lamp. In the opposite corner was a large pile of little wooden statuettes, all shoddily carved and barely comprehensible, bearing strange shapes with long snouts and spiny tails. Before Escrit could question the strange carvings, The Witch asked a question of her own as she tossed the beaver carelessly onto a pile of ash-wood trimmings and sawdust.

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” Escrit shook his furry little head as he collected himself. “No. Never.”

“There is a dragon who reigns at the eastern bay who I wish to seize by force.” Dirga continued, “There are many a man I can control with a simple cloth doll, but dragons are a far different breed that require a perfect recreation. To control one would be a power most sublime! So carve me a statue in the dragon’s likeness, and if it works as my poppet I shall remove my thistles and set you free.”

“But I know nothing about either dragons or poppets!” Escrit pled. “This is the price of your life. Take it or leave it. You have until the end of the month to please me, or I dine on Boiled Acorns and Beaver Tail.” With that, the final thread of golden light disappeared over the horizon, and The Woodcarver felt his bones stretch and his fur shrink as he returned to his human form. Dirga did not need to even glance back to ensure her charms worked, but simply slipped out of the shed and locked the door behind her, leaving the old man to his tools.

Chapter. 3

By night The Woodcarver kept to the rickety shed, squinting in the light of the oil lamp as he carefully carved away at blocks of ash wood, trying to piece together a dragon’s image from childhood tales and the vague songs of passing minstrels. Whenever he declared a carving finished, Dirga would tie one of her thistles around its neck and stare eagerly into the dragon’s face with her beady black eyes. The results were never to her liking. Every failed carving caused her to fly into violent rage, spitting and screeching as she bashed the wooden dragon into splinters.

“And what if, by some miracle, I succeed in recreating the beast?” Escrit asked himself as he returned to the shed, sitting back down upon his heap of wood shavings and starting over again, “Even if The Witch keeps her word, how could I contend with granting that wicked woman dominion over a dragon?”

The sunlit hours were far kinder to him, even though he was a beaver all throughout. He often wandered to a nearby brook where clovers and crabapples grew, and his mind always returned home. He often worried about how his wife fared, and the idea of her waiting endlessly at the window of their old cottage inspired him to persevere as he inquired with the other animals about what all they knew about the dragon that resided at the eastern bay. The Crow said it flew through the air on great leathery wings. The Mole said that it dug through rock and slithered across the ground on its belly. The Porcupine said it was spiny and stout. The Water Rat said it was smooth and scrawny. The Rabbit shuddered and ran to its burrow at the mere mention of dragons, while The Badger tutted and advised all who would listen to turn their minds to more wholesome things.

“Don’t ya’ mind them.” Called a little voice from the trees, “In these lands, the smartest animal knows less about dragons than the dumbest man.” The Beaver looked up, and there was the barn swallow, pecking at cherries in a tart tree. Amidst his troubles he had nearly forgotten the little bird altogether, and now he wondered whether or not they– being at fault for his current trial– were in cahoots with the witch.

“Little swallow!” He called, “Do you recognize me?”

“I do!” It answered back, “Though ya’ are a good deal smaller and furrier than ya’ were.”

“Then you owe me an apology, if there is enough goodness within you to grant me one.”

“I apologize for your situation, if that counts for anything.” Escrit huffed, “It does not.” “But you are not within the stomach of a wolf, and that is somethin’ to be thankful for.”

“I would rather be the dinner of a wolf than the pawn of a witch.”

The barn swallow let loose a sharp chirp and bounced excitedly upon her branch.

“Careful, careful! Do not speak of your situation, even to one as little as me.” She hushed “Do not forget the nettles!”

So it was, for even as Escrit had begun speaking of his sorrows he felt the pinprick of the thorns creep upward along his arm toward his heart. He held his tongue, and the pain subsided, contented with his obedience.

“Do not die now, you have not yet seen The Witch spin her silver thread!” The Barn Swallow tittered, “Tonight! Tonight! Come to the hut and look inside, but take care not to touch the door, walls, or window frames, for they are enchanted to strike down anything that dares draw near without her bidding.”

Before Escrit could inquire any further, the little bird took a couple of cherries in her beak and disappeared once more into the leafy canopy.

That evening, Escrit returned to The Witch’s yard. Once the sun set and he became human once more, he quietly crept from the woodshed to the glowing window of Dirga’s abode, wondering if he was a fool to dare take the swallow's advice a second time. He kept low to the ground to avoid detection, taking care not to brush against any part of the hut. Looking in he saw a large round room filled with all the trappings of the forbidden arts: bottles, herb bundles, jars of animal parts, and long ropes of thistles hung up to dry. In the center of it all was The Witch at a spinning wheel. Glittering rocks rested upon her lap as she gently tugged at the beautiful silver thread, building upon the bobbin until its starlike glow filled the room.

But The Witch was not the only member of the household. In one candlelit corner, where a cauldron and a kitchenette sat, a little girl no older than ten swept the floor. Her brown hair and grey clothes were ragged with cinders and sweat, but her little face was bright with an odd cheeriness as she tossed the contents of her dustpan out the door, leaned the broom against the wall, draped a towel over her hands, and pulled a piping hot pie from the oven. She set upon the stovetop to cool, filling the hut with the smell of baked cherries.

Escrit found his gaze fixed the little girl with a far greater curiosity than with the mystical silver thread. As the child waved a towel over the pie to help it cool, she looked up to lock her gaze with Escrit, and before he could duck his head any lower he recognized the little dark brown eyes that glinted like the glass-black gaze of a bird.

Then the rattling of the spinning wheel stopped. Escrit carefully buried himself deep into the prickly branches of the dead bush as The Witch stood up from the spinning wheel, and tied the end of silver thread around her thumb.

“Rekindle the fire in the chimney, child,” she commanded. The girl obediently glided to the fireplace of black stone and began building the flames back up from the smoldering coals.

While she worked, Dirga conducted her spell: she paced her hut three times, pulling the silver thread longer and longer until it was taught against the bobbin. Then she doubled back to her bundles of strange-smelling herbs hanging from the wall, and picked out one tied together with a black ribbon to carry back to the fireplace, now filled with a roaring orange flame.

Dirga threw the bundle on the fire. As it crackled the child lost her blithe cheer, fleeing to the far corner of the room where she crouched down and buried her face in her arms to shield herself from the red smoke that began to fill the room. The Witch chanted a strange incantation as the smoke engulfed her, her voice growing steadily louder and more shrill until a second voice called back from the fireplace, horrifying and incomprehensible. Escrit, sensing the risk he was taking had suddenly crossed over into a world of cosmic peril, backed silently from his hiding place. He crept back to the woodshed, holding his breath for fear of making the slightest sound, only daring to breathe once he was safely closed in amongst the tools and the ash wood. He sat on the floor, jittery and wide-eyed all throughout the night with nothing to comfort him but the murmuring of prayers, and the cold wooden eyes of a half-dozen unfinished dragons.

#original work #original story #anyways I'm a big BIG fan of old fairytales if you couldn't tell #this story is about 10k words in total so far and I'm about 1/3 of the way through the tale #... I think... things always get longer the more I work on them

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