Come now, pull up a chair and sit with me by the fire. I see you’re expecting a tale, but you won’t get one hiding in the corner like that.
Good, good. Care for some warm sage water? No? Well, more for me.
Ahh, nothing like piping hot sage water to put some fire in an old bod.
…
Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, yes, yes, a story. Hmm… well, let me see. Oh, there’s a fitting one. On a night like this, where the wind’s right Baltic and the night’s dark as the inside of a bear, you can’t help but wish it were summertime year-round, eh? It’s the same with people, you see. There comes a day when all of us will look in a mirror and wish we could sponge all the winter out of us, and leave ourselves fresh as a Sunday morning. But well, we can’t do that now can we?
Leastways, not alone we can’t. That’s what a Witherwill is for. You see, nobody quite knows where the Witherwills came from, or how they came to our small world. Some say they were once a beast like any other, but they hid from Adam in the garden of Eden when he was naming the animals, and before he could ever name them proper, he fell and was cast out, leaving the Witherwills nameless and empty.
In other parts of the world, they say they were born in the middle of a Winter solstice on a cloudless night, under a full moon glinting down at a silver lake. They say that both the lake and the moon tried to reflect the other, but both were as clear as a polished looking glass, and all one could see was a tunnel of reflections between the two, echoing into infinity. They say the first Witherwill crawled out from that tunnel.
But regardless of how they came to be, everyone agrees that to summon one, you must collect a handful of sand, and mix it with a spoonful of ash from a fireplace, a pinch of animal hair, and a drop of your own blood. Then, looking at your own reflection, you say the following;
Hair of beast and silt of earth,
From my soul, I will thy birth
At that point, a Witherwill shall appear, and answer you in its own lilting voice;
Blood of man and ash of tree,
Wither will my soul to be?
Hush now, that was only the wind. Saying the words by themselves is harmless, you must follow the ritual perfectly. Now, Witherwills are empty, empty creatures. They have nothing of their own, so to have something, they must first take it from others. So, give them everything of yourself you no longer want; give them your anger and envy, your fear and laziness. Give them every bit of your personality you think you could do without, and they will lap it up like a starving alley cat.
And then, after they’ve taken everything you’ll give, they’ll leave you in peace, a brand new “you”.
But they don’t vanish so easily.
From now on, your Witherwill shall go out into the world, embodying everything you gave it. What it makes of its life is no longer your business, but live it shall, clothed in your vices like a second-hand coat.
Now, what becomes of both the Witherwill and its soul-parent? Well, this is where our stories begin.
The First Part
A long time ago, in the region of Latgale, there lived a basket weaver named Valdis. Born of a scullery maid and an uncertain sire, life did not spare Valdis the rod. And so, he grew up bitter and vengeful, with a long memory towards those that slighted him. And yet, for the sake of his mother, Valdis swallowed his own hatred. Both the boy and the mother had only each other in life, and Valdis had seen how she cried to herself when he came back, covered in bruises and cuts from one scrap or another. For her sake, he learned to hold back his bile behind wide grins and shallow platitudes.
But for all the ease it gave his mother, Valdis felt little himself. Why should those that affront him walk free? Valdis’ life felt like one long slight by nature, and he couldn’t keep himself from counting the debt.
Then, one midwinter’s feast, he overheard a troubadour regaling his captive audience with tales of the Witherwills. Here at last, Valdis saw his hope for redemption. That very night, Valdis collected the four ritual components, and in the dark of a back alley, using a bucket of water as a mirror, he chanted the words of contract;
Hair of beast and silt of earth,
From my soul, I will thy birth
From everywhere and nowhere at once, in a voice like wind whistling through a mountain pass, a voice intoned the response;
Blood of man and ash of tree,
Wither will my soul to be?
Although he could not see the phantom, Valdis could not miss its presence either. Focusing inwards, he began to unload his soul. All his animosity and wrath, his indignation and sense of injustice, his combativeness and grudges. He gave and gave, until he had purged the last of the smouldering embers from within him. And then, for the first time in his short life, Valdis felt at peace.
From that day forward, no matter what life threw at him, Valdis accepted it with an even temper and a good-natured smile. No matter what insults or fists flew in his direction, Valdis held nothing against his aggressors. “It’s not their fault,” he explained to his mother, after being robbed blind and left half-dead in a gutter. “Mankind’s tendency is towards evil, it’s only natural not everyone is strong enough to rise above it. But an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind, we must be strong enough to endure.”
That night, both mother and son went to bed hungry, the second time that week.
Now, as it so happens, a certain incident was unfolding in the region not far from our protagonist. Out of nowhere, a vile bandit rose to plague the region of Latgale, the dreaded Asinsbārda. As cruel as midwinter, he terrorized the land at the head of a vast band of cutthroats and spared none from his axe.
Naturally, it was only a matter of time before Asinsbārda descended upon Valdis and his small settlement, putting it to fire and the sword.
As the town burned around him, Valdis fled through the ruined streets with his mother, trying to find a safe route to escape the town. Ducking through back alleys and cutting through ruined homes, the pair made it to the south gate, only to find a lone figure waiting for them.
Asinsbārda, the bandit chief.
As the two stood face to face, recognition dawned on Valdis.
“You?!” he gasped, as the mirror copy of him raise his axe.
“Aye,” the Witherwill smirked. “Me.”
Before, Valdis would have fought back tooth and nail. He would have thrown sand in the bandit’s eyes, picked up one of the fallen weapons nearby, and driven it into the man’s throat. But all will to fight had been leeched from the man and transferred to his Witherwill. His fear, which used to be beaten back by his anger and sense of injustice, now had full reign over him. And so, quaking in his boots, Valdis let the axe fall on him.
The Second Part
There once was a king in a far-off land by the name of Johaffsen IV. Blessed with kind parents and a peaceful rule, Johaffsen developed a deep, trusting view of humanity at a young age, and carried this with him into his ruling years.
Every peasant in the area knew well of their king’s humanitarian nature. If you had an infirmed grandparent, a spouse who broke their leg, a child sick with a fever, even a touch of blight on your fields, you could beseech the king, and he would aid you. A man devoted to his people, his coffers were always empty, as he gave away his wealth faster than he taxed it.
Naturally, it took little time at all before his citizens began to take advantage of him.
Parents would wear their most tattered work clothes, rub dirt in their children’s faces, then come before the king to beg, and leave in silks.
Farmers would come with their oldest, half-featherless chickens and cry to the king that their hens were no longer laying, and leave with a flock of geese.
Layabouts would learn how to fake a limp or wrap bandages about their limbs before going to ask mercy of the king, leaving with gold in their pockets.
On and on it went, as across the kingdom the roads went unpaved, the walls unrepaired, and the armies unstaffed, for lack of royal funds. King Johaffsen lamented of his own naivete, but still found himself unable to refuse the pleading eyes of his citizens, his gentle nature rendering him incapable of doubting his fellow man.
And then, one winter’s night, the king overheard a wandering troubadour’s tale of the Witherwills, and the seed of a plan sprouted in his mind. Late that very night, in the privacy of his dreary bedchambers, Johaffsen recited the first half of the ancient invocation as he gazed into his bronze looking glass.
Hair of beast and silt of earth,
From my soul, I will thy birth
From seemingly behind and in front of him, above and below, a voice like the rush of air from an opened tomb reached his ears, completing the rhyme;
Blood of man and ash of tree,
Wither will my soul to be?
Although unable to place it within the gloom of the night-draped room, Johaffsen could clearly tell he was no longer alone. Digging deep within, he gave the entity his naivete and innocence, his generosity and his empathy, his trusting nature and his faith in humanity. As the ever-present guilt at being born a king in a world of peasants finally ebbed out of him, Johaffsen felt peace for the first time in his life, and he smiled broadly. Finally, he thought, my subjects will have the king they deserve.
From that day forward, the kingdom changed almost overnight. Taxes were raised, soldiers re-hired, the infrastructure repaired, and citizens were barred from the palace. Gone were the days of the king’s hand-over-fist generosity; now, the peasants felt the very poverty they had pretended to experience before. Further, no longer satisfied with the dwindling wealth squeezed from his increasingly impoverished citizens, Johaffsen turned his attention to his neighbours, initiating a series of brutal wars that would continue long after his eventual demise.
Before all this had occurred however, mere weeks after Johaffsen’s iron rule began, a solitary man arrived at the castle gates, demanding entry.
Confused by this stranger who bore the exact likeness of their king, they escorted him before King Johaffsen. And so, man and Witherwill were reunited again.
“You?” The king observed, unsurprised.
“Aye,” the Witherwill replied meekly, “Me.”
From there, the Witherwill tearfully and eloquently argued for the king to change his ways. He spoke of the suffering of his people, the horrors a war with his neighbours would unleash, and the responsibilities of a king to his people.
King Johaffsen listened through the Witherwill’s passionate speech… and yawned. He had no empathy or faith in humanity left to stir, no spark of trust towards his formerly innocent self. And likewise, his Witherwill had nothing in him but goodwill, not even a hint of deceit or conniving with which to negotiate or spark fear. And so, the Witherwill was clapped in chains and dragged into the depths of King Johaffsen’s dungeon, where he remained for the rest of his days.
*******
And that’s the end of my tales! Come now, what’s with the face? Surely you didn’t expect you could sponge away a bit of your humanity at no cost? The human’s a delicate piece of glasswork, and there are no quick fixes.
What’s that? You wish you’d never heard my story?
Well now.
There’s a solution for that, too.
Simply call up a Witherwill of your own, you see. Then, give it all your memories of my little tale. Easy, right?
Although… a Witherwill made of nothing but a memory of a story… what kind of life do you think that Witherwill would choose, eh? Ha ha!
Now then…
Blood of man and ash of tree,
Wither will my soul to be?
ns216.73.216.70da2
and then Add to home screen.