Circle round, and I'll tell you the tale for a long winter's night…
Once there were two sisters - we'll call them Johanna and Zelda,
although they lived so long ago that no one remembers their true names.
Zelda, the elder sister, was very beautiful to look at, but she wasn't
kind. In fact, because she was so beautiful, she went through life
expecting everyone to do favors for her and let her have her own way,
and often enough they did.
Johanna, the younger sister, was different. She was kind to everyone she
met, and helpful, especially to the older people in her village. She was
always doing favors for them, and she tried to make sure they were
comfortable and had enough to eat. Johanna was rather plain to look at -
not ugly, but certainly no beauty. Only people who were wise enough to
look beneath the surface of things would notice her beautiful spirit
shining out through her eyes.
One day Johanna and Zelda were spinning beside the little well that
supplied their cottage with water. Johanna was twirling her spindle to
twist the thread when she dropped it altogether. The spindle went
rolling and bouncing into the well.
"Now look what you've done!" said Zelda, "You better go right down into
that well and get that spindle. We can't afford to lose it."
Johanna was afraid, but she knew Zelda was right. They didn't have money
to buy another spindle. So she lowered herself carefully into the well
and began to climb down the rough stones.
She climbed, down and down and down, until the circle of light from the
top of the well became a tiny star, and then disappeared altogether.
Still she didn't find the bottom of the well. But she had to go on - she
had to get that spindle! So on she went.
After a long, long time, she finally felt solid ground beneath her feet.
In surprise, she let go of the stones. The well disappeared, and she was
standing in the middle of a broad field of silvery snow. She could see
no sign of either sun or moon, but the sky above her seemed to shine
from within.
Johanna began walking toward the trees, and soon found keeping a sharp
eye out for her spindle. At last she came to a clearing.
In the center of the clearing was a huge, old apple tree. Its boughs
were covered with silvery snow and weighed down by apples with
silver-red skin.
"Pick me, pick me!" the apple tree said, "My limbs are going to break
under all this fruit. Harvest me! Help me!"
Johanna looked around and saw a big basket at her feet. "I'll help you,"
she said to the apple tree, and she got right to work. She picked all
the apples she could reach, and then she climbed up high into the tree
to get all the fruit that grew on the upper branches. As she picked, she
began to feel strange and dreamy, to remember all sorts of things she
thought she had forgotten, as if the apples were her own memories she
was gathering. She grew very tired, but she didn't stop until she had
picked the very last one. Then she climbed down, thanked the tree for
its fruit, shouldered the basket, and started off again.
The path led back into the forest of silvery trees, where silver birds
called high above her and silvery gray squirrels ran along the snow-clad
branches. She was tired and the basket was heavy, but she continued on,
still looking for her spindle. At last she came to another clearing.
In this clearing stood a big, old-fashioned brick oven. In front of the
oven was a long wooden table, and on it were trays of unbaked loaves of
bread, all nicely risen.
"Bake us! Bake us!" the bread cried out to her, "We will spoil if we
aren't baked right away, and for just the right amount of time. Help
us!"
"Of course I'll help you," Johanna said, "I know how to bake bread." She
set down her basket and put the trays of bread into the oven, and then
sat watched while they baked. Again she felt dreamy and sleepy, but this
time she found herself thinking about all the things she wished for and
planned to do with her life, as if the loaves of bread were her own
hopes and dreams baking. Tired as she was, she didn't let herself fall
asleep, but kept checking the bread until it was golden brown and
crusty. Then she took it out of the oven, let it cool, and added it to
the apples in her basket. She thanked the oven for its bread and started
off again.
She walked on through the forest, where silver foxes darted among the
trees and white hares left tracks in the snow. At last she came to
another clearing, and there she saw a house like none she'd ever seen
before.
The house was made of every good thing to eat she had ever imagined. The
walls were made of honey cake and gingerbread, the roof was shingled
with white icing, the steps were blocks of hard candy, and the railings
were candy canes. The eaves were studded with peppermints and gumdrops
and chocolate kisses.
Johanna was very hungry, but she knew it was not polite to start
chomping on somebody's house without asking permission, so she went up
to the door, which was made of a big lemon cookies, and knocked.
The door opened, and Johanna saw a woman. At first the woman looked
very, very old to her, but when Johanna looked again, she seemed quite
young. Her face was dark as old wood or the young night sky, but when
Johanna blinked, the woman was white and pale and silvery as a full moon
on a field of snow. One minute Johanna wanted to jump into the woman's
arms and cuddle in her lap, but the next minute she found herself almost
to afraid to speak to the bright, fierce eyes in the woman's face.
"I am Mother Winter," the woman said, "Who are you who comes knocking at
my door?"
"If you please, Mother, I am Johanna," she answered, "I have come
searching for my lost spindle, and I bring you a basket of apples I have
harvested and bread I have baked."
"You've come to the right place," Mother Winter said, "All lost spindles
come to me. And you have brought me good offerings. I will help you, but
before I do, you must work for me. You must chop wood to keep me warm,
and clean my house, and make my bed."
"Gladly, Mother," Johanna said, and she got right to work because she
had always helped the people in her village, she knew how to split wood
with an axe, sweep floors and clean the tables and wash the dishes.
Mother Winter watched all that she did, and was pleased with her.
"Now all you have to do is go upstairs and make my bed," Mother Winter
said, "Be sure to shake my featherbed out the window, and shake it hard.
For I am Mother Winter, and when you shake out my featherbed, you bring
snow to the places in the world that get snow and rain to the places
that get rain."
So Johanna went upstairs and shook out the featherbed as hard as she
could, and sure enough, in the upper world, snow and rain fell on the
earth.
"You must be tired and hungry," Mother Winter said, "Come have a drink
of my soup, and eat some supper."
On the hearth, Mother Winter had a big cauldron full of steaming soup.
She handed Johanna a dipper, and just for a moment Johanna caught a
glimpse of what was inside. The brew in the cauldron was dark as the
night sky, and studded with swirling stars and snowflakes.
"In my cauldron you see all your dreams and possibilities," Mother
Winter said, "Everything that has been and everything that has not yet
come to be is all brewed together. Now have a drink."
Johanna drank, and the soup tasted better than all the candy and cookies
in the world. It was nourishing and refreshing and exciting all at once,
and yet that one sip satisfied all her hunger.
"Here is your spindle," Mother Winter said, and she handed it back to
Johanna. When Johanna took the spindle in her hand, it felt heavy, and
when she looked at it, she saw that it had turned to solid gold. Then
she and Mother Winter feasted on bread and apples.
"You have done well," Mother Winter said when it was time for Johanna to
leave. "You have brought me good offerings. You've fed my fire and
cleaned my house, and you have shaken my featherbed good and hard! When
you return to your world, you will find you bring gifts with you. For I
am the Giver of Gifts and the Teacher of Lessons."
So Johanna returned, all the long way through the silvery woods, past
the big oven, past the apple tree, out to the open field where a dark
circle hung in the sky like an open mouth. Johanna raised her golden
spindle, and a thread of light beamed up into the darkness. Then, as if
something above was reeling in the thread, she found herself rising and
rising until she could feel the old stones of the well under her hands
and feet. She climbed up and up, and at last she clambered out of the
well.
Zelda was waiting for her impatiently. "Where have you been?" she asked,
"What took you so long? And what has happened to you?"
For Johanna looked quite different from the girl who'd climbed into the
well. Her features hadn't changed, but now her plain, kind face seemed
to glow with a light on its own, and the goodness of her heart made her
quite beautiful. She opened her mouth to tell her sister everything that
had happened, and as she spoke, gold and silver and precious stones
dropped out of her mouth and covered the ground.
"You've had quite a time, I can see!" Zelda said. She was very jealous.
"Why should you get all the good things and me none? I'm going down that
well myself!"
And she hopped over the edge and climbed down the well. Sure enough, she
soon found herself in the silvery land, and walked across the snowy
field and through the forest path under the silvery trees, until she
came to the clearing with the big apple tree.
"Pick me, pick me!" the apple tree said, "My limbs are going to break
under all this fruit. Harvest me! Help me!"
"Hah!" Zelda said scornfully, "Do I look like a gardener? Don't you
think I have more important things to do than waste my time picking
fruit? Let them rot!" And she walked on.
Soon she came to the clearing with the old brick oven and the loaves of
bread on trays ready to be baked.
"Bake us! Bake us!" the bread cried out to her, "We will spoil if we
aren't baked right away, and for just the right amount of time. Help
us!"
"Hah!" said Zelda scornfully, "Do I look like a baker? Do you think I
have nothing better to do than sit around watching some dumb bread cook?
Let it spoil, what do I care?" And she walked on.
Finally she came to Mother Winter's house, made of all the most
wonderful things she could imagine to eat. She was hungry, so she broke
off a piece of the gingerbread wall and began to eat it.
The door of the house opened, and Mother Winter came out. "I am Mother
Winter," she said, "Who are you, and why have you come here? Why are you
eating my house without even asking permission?"
"Excuse me," Zelda said, "I was hungry. I've come because you gave such
wonderful things to my sister and I think you should give me some gifts,
too."
"Oh you do, do you?" Mother Winter said, "What offerings have you
brought me?"
"Offerings?" Zelda said, "I didn't know I was supposed to bring
offerings. I thought you were the Giver of Gifts."
"I am," Mother Winter said, "but gifts must be earned. You have nibbled
at my house without asking permission, and you haven't brought me any
offerings, but still I will give you a chance to earn my gifts. You must
work for me. You must chop wood to feed my fire, and clean my house, and
make my bed."
"Do I have to?" Zelda whined, "What do I look like, a housemaid?" But
she didn't say it very loud. She went outside to chop wood, but because
she had never bothered to help anyone with their chores before, she
didn't know how to split a stump or use an axe, and after a few
half-hearted tries, she gave up. She gathered a few loose sticks that
were lying around and brought them in. Then she tried to sweep the
floor, but all she succeeded in doing was stirring up the dust. She
wiped the crumbs from the table onto the floor, making it even dirtier,
and washed the dishes so badly that food was still sticking to the
plates when she put them away.
"Now can I have my gifts?" Zelda asked.
"You have not done well," Mother Winter said, "You have nibbled at my
house without asking permission, you haven't brought me any offerings.
You have not fed my fire or cleaned my house. Still, I will give you one
more chance. Go upstairs and make my bed. Be sure to shake my featherbed
out the window, and shake it hard. For I am Mother Winter, and when you
shake out my featherbed, you bring snow to the places in the world that
get snow and rain to the places that get rain."
"Oh all right," Zelda sighed. She went upstairs and tried to pick up the
featherbed, but it seemed too heavy to her.
"She'll never know if I shake it or not," Zelda told herself, and so she
just fluffed it a bit on the bed, and went back down. And so in the
upper world there was no snow or rain, and the ground stayed dry and
brown and thirsty.
"Now can I have my gifts?" Zelda asked hopefully.
Mother Winter sighed, "You have not done well. You have nibbled at my
house without asking permission, you haven't brought me any offerings.
You have not fed my fire or cleaned my house, and you didn't even shake
out my featherbed. Still, I will offer you a taste of my soup."
"Soup!" Zelda cried indignantly, "I didn't come here for soup. I came
for gold and jewels and beauty like my sister got."
"Very well," Mother Winter said, "I am the Giver of Gifts and the
Teacher of Lessons. Return to your world, and you will find that you
have been given the gifts you deserve."
So Zelda went back, all the long way through the silvery forest, past
the oven and the apple tree and the field of snow, up the well, and at
last she climbed out to find her sister Johanna waiting for her.
"Here I am! Here I am!" Zelda announced.
"But what has happened to you?" Johanna cried. For Zelda had changed.
Although her features remained the same, they now seemed as pinched and
narrow and twisted as her mean spirit. And when she spoke, clouds of
mosquitoes and flies flew out of her mouth.
And so she remained until the end of her days - or at least until she
learned a few lessons. Who knows? Maybe she'll go down the well again
and do better this time. For Mother Winter is the Teacher of Lessons,
who will always give us another chance.
