I recently launched my most recent collection of original fairy tales, titled The Swamp Hag of Blackrock Fields and Other Tales.
Below, find an excerpt from the eponymous fairy tale.
This collection is the second in my series of Ariele’s Fairy Tales. You can find five additional original fairy tales in the first book, The Bald Princess and Other Tales.
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The Swamp Hag of Blackrock Fields
Once upon a time, there was an old woman named Mabel who lived in a swamp. The children at the nearby village called her a hag, though she preferred they use the more accurate term “swamp hag.”
She mostly kept to herself, foraging for food from the surrounding wilderness, growing a small garden behind her cottage, and only occasionally heading into town to trade for supplies. On rare occasions, people from the village would make their way out to her for assistance with various health-related needs. She was always happy to help, and they trusted her.
Mabel had lived in the cottage many years, ever since Horace ran out on her. Only twenty-five years old they’d been, and he’d chased after Gralia Taylor, the florist’s niece. It had hurt at the time, but Mabel discovered she was better off without him. She liked living alone, and she liked having a cat. Horace had hated cats.
AI-generated art of Mabel
The village was pretty standard as far as small rural towns went. Only about a thousand people lived in and around the town, and that was only since about ten years prior, when the queen had fixed the roads leading out this far. There had been an influx of people who wanted to farm the land. An inn had been built, and new businesses were popping up all over—a shoemaker, a tailor, public baths, and lots of new houses.
Before that, it had been a much smaller town with fewer resources, and a few times a year, Mabel had traveled three days to get to the next nearest town. Now she could get all the supplies she needed here. So, in some ways, the growth was a blessing. But it also meant more people, more curious noses poking around her swamp, and more unkind rumors floating about, suggesting she was up to all kinds of nefarious things in her tiny cottage in the woods.
She did her best to ignore the rumors, but at some point, she knew she would have to address them. After all, she didn’t need an angry mob with torches and pitchforks showing up to burn down her cottage in the middle of the night.
On this particular day, the late summer heat had finally cooled, and just a tinge of color painted the leaves on the trees a glinting gold. Apples were ripe for the picking, and Mabel had decided to take her basket up to the grove of apple trees on the northern edge of her swamp. She wore heavy boots, as the ground was muddy underfoot, and she had shortened her skirts to help prevent them from getting waterlogged—a hazard of living in a swamp.
Her dear cat, Gooseberry, scampered ahead of her, occasionally meowing to make sure Mabel was following. Gooseberry loved walks with Mabel, and Mabel loved seeing Gooseberry so happy.
Mabel breathed in the crisp morning air, feeling her magic relax at the scent of the fallen leaves. Frost-laden grasses crunched underfoot. This was her favorite time of year, just after the fall equinox, when the days shortened and the shadows drifted across the forest earlier and earlier. And when the leaves fell from the apple trees, it left the crooked and gnarled branches bare, and Mabel felt she understood those trees. For she, too, was crooked and gnarled, at least on the inside.
Her favorite tree grew tall on the eastern edge of the grove, and it had the biggest, sweetest apples. They shone red and yellow in the morning light. Gooseberry dashed toward the tree and scrambled up it, strutting daintily along the branch. With one swipe of her claw, she released an apple. Mabel caught it deftly and tossed it into her basket.
An hour later, her basket was overflowing, and she had even stuffed some of the fruit into her apron pockets. “That’s enough, Gooseberry!” she called out. The creature dropped elegantly to the ground and dashed over to Mabel for some scratches. “Good kitty. When we get home, I’ll get a big bowl of milk for you.”
Gooseberry purred, rubbing her head against Mabel’s fingers. Then they began the trek home.
Between the cottage and the apple trees, most of the path was covered in a layer of water a few inches deep. The cold night had left thin sheets of ice floating in the shadows, but the warm sun had melted most of them by this late in the morning. She splashed past the rotting stump of the great old oak that had fallen four winters before, and strode beneath the bare branches of the red maple graveyard; only one tree still bore leaves, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t last many more winters.
AI watercolor art of a possible Mabel
Gooseberry leaped from hassock to hassock. She’d fallen into the water more times than Mabel could count, but was now quite skilled at keeping dry. Ahead of them, the ground rose, shifting into a more standard deciduous forest. At the base of the hill, water in the swamp flowed into a small pool, and a tiny stream trickled out into the trees, where it followed the curve of the hill and flowed into the next swamp.
Mabel stomped most of the way up the hill, relishing the crunch of leaves underfoot, and then frowned when she realized Gooseberry had not followed.
“Gooseberry?” she called out, scanning the trees and looking over her shoulder. There was not much undergrowth in this part of the forest; just ferns and honeysuckles. But Gooseberry was nowhere to be seen. She called again, “Gooseberry!”
Then she heard a meow coming from the base of the hill. Frowning, she tromped through last year’s leaves, rounding the massive oak growing halfway up the hill. Gooseberry meowed again, and Mabel picked up her pace.
She slipped partway down, then skidded the rest of the way to the bottom of the hill, catching herself on the branch of a sweet birch tree at the edge of the stream.
“Gooseberry?”
Then she heard a groan. An unmistakably human groan.
“Is someone there?” Her frown deepened as she eased into the stream, aiming toward the sound.
The groan came again, this time followed by a string of swear words. Gooseberry meowed—the cat and the person were clearly in the same place.
Mabel hurried, splashing in the icy water, her toes growing colder with each step. She neared a small pool and gasped. A shirtless man kneeled in the water, splashing water on his face, which was covered in a bright red rash. It wasn’t only his face that was covered, either—his arms and hands and chest were also inflamed.
Gooseberry paced worriedly on the bank of the stream, meowing at the top of her lungs.
“Oh my,” Mabel murmured. “Have a little run-in with the gloam nettles, did we?”
“It burns,” the man groaned.
“Yes, I suppose it does.” Mabel tsked. “Wait right there. No, on second thought, get out of the stream before you freeze. And stop washing—you want the sap to dry on your skin. Try not to touch it. I’ll be right back.” She set her basket on the ground near Gooseberry and raced off to pluck some spotted jewelweed from a patch she saw growing nearby. It wasn’t the perfect remedy, but it would have to do until she could get him into a bath.
When she returned, he was sitting on a rock on the edge of the creek, shivering, with a deep grimace etched into his face. Beneath the inflammation on his skin, Mabel thought he was rather handsome. He wouldn’t be for long if she didn’t take care of the gloam rash—no, he’d be dead.
“Come along,” she said, gesturing for him to stand. “We’ve got to get you back to my cottage.”
“What’s that for?” he asked, nodding at the clump of jewelweed stems she held in her hand.
“It’ll help with the burning,” she said, “but first we have to get you cleaned up.” She bent down and picked up the basket of apples. “Here, you carry this. It will keep your hands busy to prevent you from scratching.”
He took it almost automatically.
Mabel frowned and glanced around. “Did you have a bag or anything?”
“At my campsite.” He gestured into the trees.
“Ah.” She nodded. “We can get it later. Come along.” Flashing him a smile, she tromped into the trees with Gooseberry meowing in her wake. At first, she didn’t think the man was going to follow, but a moment later, she heard leaves crunching underfoot behind her.
“What’s your name?” she asked after a few moments.
“Cyrus,” he replied.
“I’m Mabel,” she said, “and this is Gooseberry.”
They walked in silence for a few moments before the man ventured, “Er, not to be rude, but… are you…?” He trailed off, as if uncertain how to phrase his question.
“The swamp hag, yes,” she replied. “Very different from a regular, run-of-the-mill hag, to be clear. The children can’t seem to get that into their tiny little brains.”
Cyrus chuckled and then broke off with a wince.
“Don’t worry,” Mabel said. “We’re only a few minutes from my cottage, and we’ll get you taken care of.”
“I’m very uncomfortable,” he admitted. “Did the cold water make it worse?”
“Probably not,” Mabel said, keeping her voice cheerful. Though it undoubtedly had. “But it’s better not to wash for a few minutes after.”
“I’ll remember that next time.” He sounded rueful.
Mabel laughed. “I hope there won’t be a next time. Most people prefer to avoid gloam nettles at all costs.”
She led him out into the clearing surrounding her cottage. It sat up on a small hill overlooking the deepest part of the swamp. The water there was covered with duckweed, though at this late date, it was unlikely the plant would last much longer. Gooseberry leaped onto the fence as Mabel unlatched the gate, and Cyrus followed them into the cottage.
The coals in her stove were hot, so Mabel tossed some wood in and blew on the coals to make flames lick up. She dragged a chair as close to the stove as possible and gestured for Cyrus to sit down.
“I’ll just draw you a bath then, while you warm up,” she said, stomping out to the well to fill a pot. When she reentered her cottage, Cyrus was sitting so close to the stove he was liable to set himself on fire, but she just grinned at him and went to drag the washbasin into the yard. She had carefully grown thick vines to make quite a cozy—and private—bathing area, as she didn’t have much room in her cottage.
As soon as the first pot steamed, she lifted it and carried it out to the basin.
“In you go,” she ordered.
Cyrus followed her outside, obediently carrying the second steaming pot Mabel had stuffed into his hands. Mabel carried a third and then dumped in two buckets of cold water. She dipped her fingers beneath the water. It was hot, but not painfully so.
“You can add another bucket of cold water from the well if you need to,” she said. “I’ll bring you soap and a washcloth shortly. Get in.”
He nodded as she strode back into the house. Gooseberry was waiting at the door, yowling to be let out.
“In a moment, cat,” Mabel said. “It’s not every day I have a handsome man taking a bath in my backyard.”
Gooseberry meowed again.
Mabel grabbed a bar of soap, a washcloth, and one of Harold’s old robes she’d kept. It was too large for her, but she enjoyed wearing it. It was comfortable. Hopefully, it would fit Cyrus, though he was taller than Harold had been.
“Coming out!” Mabel called, and as she stepped out, she was pleased to see Cyrus had settled into the basin. Keeping her eyes averted, she handed the man the soap and washcloth. “I’ll just put the towel and robe on this chair here,” she said, “and I’m going to take your clothes and wash them. Make sure you scrub every ounce of skin with soap and water, and start with your face.”
“You’re too kind,” Cyrus said as she ducked back into the house with his clothes in her arms.
Twenty minutes later, he appeared at the back door, his face still inflamed. The robe was wrapped around him and he held the towel in one hand.
“It still hurts,” he said.
“Yes, I’m not surprised,” Mabel said kindly, taking the towel and tossing it into the laundry basket. “Is it better, worse, or the same?”
He paused for a moment. “Maybe a tiny bit better. Or the same. Not worse, at least.”
“That’s good! Progress. Now have a seat.” She’d spent the last twenty minutes making a lotion from jewelweed, beeswax, and dried gloam flower, which could only be harvested during the twilight hour. She then infused it with cooling magic, and now carried over a bowl of it. She pulled up a chair and plopped down. “Close your eyes.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “You know, I’m being awfully trusting of the Hag of Blackrock Fields.”
“Swamp hag,” she corrected. “And if I wanted to eat your heart for dinner tonight, I would have already carved it out. Now, close your eyes.”
His eyes widened for a moment, but then he did as instructed.
She dabbed a little of the jewelweed potion on his cheek and gently rubbed it in. At first, he flinched, but then he relaxed as the cooling effect of her lotion took over.
“Thank you,” he murmured, leaning back against the couch.
“Working?” she asked. She carefully massaged the cream into his face and neck. “I need to make more, but you can use this on your arms and chest, okay?”
He nodded, eyes still closed. She stuffed the bowl into his hand and returned to the kitchen to finish mixing up the rest of the cream. She returned a few minutes later to see him hurriedly rubbing the last of it into his arms, and she handed him the second batch.
“Now then. I have to meet someone in fifteen minutes, so you just stay here and rest. Understand?” She gave him a stern look. “I’ll bring you some willow bark tea to help with the inflammation. I want you to drink it all, and I’ll check in on you in an hour.”
“Thank you,” he said again, this time meeting her eyes. They were deep brown, and something like embarrassed gratefulness burned in them. “I owe you.”
She brushed off the comment with a wave of her hand. “Your clothes are drying on the line. Grab them whenever it is convenient.” The teapot whistled, and Mabel poured him a cup of tea and set it on the low table in front of him. “I’ll be back.”
Mabel removed her apron and grabbed her satchel. “Gooseberry, you stay here with the nice gentleman.” She opened the door and then glanced over her shoulder. The man was watching her. She gave him a brief smile and then stepped out into the cool late morning air.
For some reason, her heart was pounding in her chest. But it couldn’t be because there was a man in her cottage. That happened regularly, when husbands came with their wives—or their husbands—for help with various types of remedies. No, it was something about him specifically. His eyes, maybe, or that she’d had ample opportunity to stare at his chest. It had been nearly twenty years since Harold left. Maybe she was just feeling some midlife loneliness. That must be it.
He would leave and she would put him out of her mind. That was all there was to it.
