The Maiden of the Mountain

BY LUCY RUTHERFORD

In the Mountains of Morning, long ago and long ago, at the edge of Day and Night, there once was a house built entirely of a single block of white stone, and it had no windows but only a door that was never any way but shut. The house stood in the center of a lake that reflected no mortal face but only the ever circling stars that never left the sky and suffered no mortal to cross except by way of a narrow white bridge that permitted only one man to pass at a time.

Some said that a pale woman with hair dark as the waves of the sea lived in that house, and even some said they had seen her with their own eyes, but whenever they came up to where they had seen her, they only met the three ravens that spoke omens to those who brought them pearls or an old woman dressed in tattered gray who had no face.

Even so, enough people insisted that they had seen the young woman whose skin was as white as the moon and whose hair was as dark as the storm-tossed sea in the night that it became a common belief that the young woman must be the old woman’s daughter, and they all insisted on her beauty so fervently that many men came to see if they might win the hand of the mysterious maiden whom no one had ever spoken to, but none ever returned except alone.

In the autumn a man came riding up to the Mountains of Morning, a lord of a mighty fief in the kingdom, and he brought pearls for the ravens and a whole train of retainers besides and chests full of treasures and fine silk gowns that he intended to offer for the maiden’s hand.

“A king rides up to the gate of the king but he leaves a beggar,” the Ravens said, when he had given them the pearls, and then they flew away and threw the pearls down from the mountainside and they became little pebbles that landed in the lake full of stars without making a splash.

The lord scoffed at the birds and stepped onto the bridge where the old woman stood spinning, paying him no mind. “Old woman,” he said. “I would have the maiden who lives here. See, here, the treasures I bring for her. She would want for nothing. Wilt thou tell her that I am here to wed her?”

The old woman never stopped her spinning. “To wed her you sayest? And why should she wed you?”

“She shall live in luxury and plenty all her life. I have castles and estates full of treasures besides these, which are mere trifles in comparison. Shalt thou not tell her?”

“Tell her yourself,” said the old woman and turned, still spinning, to go into the house.

“But where is she?” the lord asked, for he did not see the maiden but only the crone.

“Within,” said the old woman, and passed through the door.

“The toll, the toll, the toll,” cackled the ravens from the cliff above him.

The lord stepped onto the bridge to follow, and his chains of gold and jeweled rings and gorgeous finery became unbearably heavy as though to drag him down into the water that reflected only the stars overhead, and so cold that it burned him, and when he had reached the door at last, he was so weary that he fell to his knees and could not muster the strength to reach for the latch.

“Will you not come within?” came the old woman’s voice, and he raised his eyes to see the door open and a firelit room beyond the threshold.

“But has the toll been paid?” The ravens cackled again, and all the finery the lord had on him vanished and he was left with nothing as he crawled into the house.

A maiden sat sewing blackwork on fine linen beside the fire and her hair was about her like a cloak so that all he could see were her white hands, and she looked up as he entered, but she had no face. “What have you come for?” she said, and her voice was a whisper so soothing that he nearly slipped into slumber on the spot.

“To wed thee, maiden. To have thee, for thou art the finest treasure of all.”

She stood and her hair fell down about her like a cloak of night. “But what return shall you make for me? Have you the toll for the crossing?”

His face fell, for all his treasure was outside, and he knew that it could not cross the bridge.

She laughed. “Nay, I have no need for your gold. But sweep my floor for we shall share one home, and mend me a shift for we shall share one garment, and make my dinner for we shall share one table, and then we shall share one cup.”

He grew angry at that, and scoffed. “That is the work of servants,” he cried. “Come away with me, and thou shalt never have need to lift a finger.”

Her gaze turned from him then and she grew and became a woman with silver in her hair and she withered and then he saw the old woman whom he had met spinning on the bridge. “Then go,” she rasped. “I shall pay your toll to cross the bridge once more and cover you so you may face men once more.” So saying, she tossed him a bit of dust from her hearth and a scrap of rag from the hem of her shapeless garment and he found himself once more on the bridge with a handful of diamonds and a shroud draped about his shoulders.

“The toll, the toll, the toll,” the ravens cackled, and the diamonds turned to ashes and blew away as he stumbled back to his retinue and begged his servants to clothe him again for it was now night and the autumn wind was cold.

And more lords came and proclaimed their desire to wed the rumored maiden and each time the old woman invited them within, while the ravens cackled about the toll, and their treasures and flowers and poems and exotic creatures rusted and rotted and blew away or turned to skeletons as they crossed the bridge, and they entered the house with nothing.

And each time the maiden greeted them and told them to sweep her floor for they should share one home, and mend her a shift for they should share one garment, and make her dinner for they should share one table, and that then they should share one cup, and each time they scoffed and said that was work for women or for servants and that they would not. And each time she grew and withered and turned them away again and paid their toll with ashes from her hearth and covered their nakedness with rags from her own garment so that they might be able to face men once more.

Eventually, lords stopped coming and the valley fell into the hush of winter and then spring came, and still the old woman stood on the bridge spinning.

When spring had come, a young man in plain clothes came into the Mountains of Morning and stood before the bridge with only a loaf of bread and a plucked chicken in a basket, and the old woman spun and paid him no mind.

“Old woman of the Mountain, can you tell me where the maiden of the Mountain is?”

“And who are you to ask after the maiden of the Mountain?” the old woman asked, looking up from her spinning for the first time. “Are you here to claim her hand? You bring no treasure.”

The young man looked down at the basket in his hands and shook his head. “Nay, old woman, I have no treasure, but I would share a meal with the both of you, if I might, and then if you find me acceptable, then perhaps I may ask to woo her.”

The ravens flew down to crowd at the head of the bridge. “And what do you bring for us?” they cackled. “Do you not seek an omen?”

The young man shook his head again. “Nay,” he said. “I have no payment, and I am not wise enough to be trusted with oracles.”

The old woman caught her spindle and turned. “Come.” She beckoned for him to follow. “Are you prepared to pay the toll?”

“The toll, the toll, the toll!” the Ravens crowed.

The young man hesitated. “I have no money,” he said.

“Are you prepared?” The old woman said again.

He set his face and stepped onto the bridge, and followed the old woman into the house through the door that was never any way but shut. As he stepped off the bridge, the ravens cried again, “the toll, the toll, the toll!” and he found himself with nothing but his own body as he stumbled through the door and the maiden greeted him from her place by the fire.

“You have come to share a meal with me, but you have brought nothing to the table,” she said softly, and he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open.

He realized that the basket he had brought was gone. “Then… may I hunt something for you?”

“What game could you carry over this threshold?” she replied. “But sweep my floor for we shall share one home, and mend me a shift for we shall share one garment, and make my dinner for we shall share one table, and then we shall share one cup.”

“But-” he started to say and then thought better of it. “I fear I am not so attentive to tidiness as you, and my mending will not be so fine as your handiwork, and I cannot make anything but simple fare, but I will try.”

He took the broom and began to sweep the floor, but the more he swept, the more dust seemed to appear until the floor was covered in it. “Maiden,” he cried. “What is this? Is the purpose of sweeping not to clean?”

She was weaving now, and her hair was streaked with silver. “There is dust and there is dust. What are you but dust?” But she took the broom and swept the room and swept the dust away again.

Then he turned to the mending and found that the shift was a shroud and that the needle was made of splintering bone and he found that it cut his fingers until he bled and the fabric until it was shredded to threads and the whole shroud was stained red. “Lady,” he cried. “What is this? Is the purpose of mending not to make whole?”

She was setting her loom up to weave, bent, and her hair was all silver now. “There is mending and there is mending. Is the person or the covering more in need?” But she took the shift from him and mended it and set it aside to wash and wrapped his cut fingers until they no longer bled.

He turned then to making dinner, but found that no matter how he tried, the bread turned to a loaf of ashes and the wine became vinegar as he poured it. “Old woman,” he cried. “What is this? Is the purpose of food not to nourish?”

She was lying on her bed now, with a bundle of wool in her hands, and her breath was a rattle in her throat, but she had a face, wrinkled and withered, and she looked at him with dark, dark, eyes that only reflected the stars. “To nourish?” she cried in return. “What nourishment does ash provide except to those who have crumbled?” And this time, she did not take the cooking from him but lay instead with her eyes fixed on him. “What good are threads except to those who have no need of clothing?” she cried again, and tears ran down her withered face. “What good is dust except to bury the dead?”

“Dust, dust, dust!” the Ravens intoned from their spot on the mantle.

“No good to any except those who are dust,” the young man said at last, and he looked into her face, wrinkled and withered, and he looked into her eyes which reflected only the stars, and he loved her. “And I am only dust, but I will give you what I have,” and he soaked the ashen cake he had made in the vinegar and placed it in her mouth and drank what remained of the vinegar though it made his mouth burn, and washed the shroud though it set his fingers to bleeding again and laid it over her; and he swept the room again and buried her in the dust that he swept, and then he sat and wept at her grave.

“The toll, the toll, the toll!,” the Ravens cried once more and flew down to gather his tears. “Man, thou art dust; thou art dust; thou art dust.”

“I know that!” he cried at last. “What good does telling me that do?”

They laughed at him. “What good indeed?” they said and flew into the fire and were consumed in an instant.

All at once, the house began to groan and shake, and the young man watched in horror as the roof collapsed upon him.

But it did not kill him as he had expected. Instead, he found himself rising through water at an alarming rate and at last landed on the shore of the lake outside the maiden’s house, which was gone, as was the bridge leading to it. He looked into the water to see if perhaps the house was visible underneath the surface, and he saw his own reflection looking back up at him with the stars behind it like a crown.

“Young man, why do you stare into the water?” The maiden stepped up next to him and bent to look at his face.

He rose to face her and found that he was clothed in the shroud he had tried to mend and then had buried her in, but it was white now and a proper garment. “I thought you died.”

“Yes,” she said. “And you wept for me. You gave me food for the journey and a garment to cover me and dust for the toll.

“But you were an old woman.”

“And you saw my face and loved me and we shared the same cup though it was bitter. You have endured the night. Now it is morning, and we are alive.”

THE END.