She was always kept shut up, for Baba Coaja had plenty of work for her to do; and, besides, no one was to be allowed to see her, still less to woo her. She had to wind all the golden thread on reels, and store it up in underground cellars, ready for all those hundreds and hundreds of years to come. This work was very burdensome to the sweet maiden, because her mother would sing and mutter all sorts of evil spells and sayings as she spun, so that a portion of sorrow and heartache was already prepared for each bride, so soon as the golden threads should have rested upon her head; and Alba thought sadly of all the trouble that was being thus determined beforehand. Indeed, she once sat down herself to the great wheel, while her mother was away, and spun a length of thread into which she worked nothing but good wishes. But when Baba Coaja came home she was very wroth, and beat her daughter unmercifully, saying, as she threw the thread upon a heap with the rest: “Thou shalt never wed until thou canst tell thine own spinning apart again!”
In her heart the old witch was glad to have a pretext for keeping her daughter to herself, for it had been prophesied that Alba would be very unhappy, and would die young. The only being that she loved in the world was her beautiful child, yet, however much trouble she took to please her with fine clothes and all sorts of pretty trifles, she could not bring a shade of colour to her cheek or a smile to her eyes, for the only thing the maiden yearned after was freedom, and that was never hers. How she longed to go wandering for once beneath the trees that clothed the foot of the mountain whereon she dwelt. Up there nothing grew, save a little short grass; and the winter lasted far longer than the summer. When the wind howled round the castle, raging as though he would tear it to pieces, then her heart would grow heavy indeed; she would sit for hours before the hearth, staring into the fire, watching the sparks fly, and thinking of nothing at all. Or again, she would listen to her mother’s uncanny singing, while the humming of the wheel and the howling of the storm mingled in one dreary accompaniment. And then she would wonder why she spun so much sorrow for the brides into the gold-threads—why men were not suffered to be happy and gay, out there in the beautiful sunshine, for that always looked bright and merry. But she could never make out the reason why, and would fall asleep at last from sheer thinking. The great reels of gold in the cellars all had one and the same face, yet she would play with them, and pretend they were people, and make up their histories, and try and fancy what would befall the brides that were to wear those golden threads; but as she knew nothing of the world, all her stories were very unlikely ones.
“Mother,” she asked one day, resting her chin upon her hand, “are the people in the world just as we are, thou and I—or have they other forms, and other thoughts?”
“What are the people in the world to thee? They are all very bad, and would only do thee harm if they got hold of thee.”
“But a while ago a beautiful creature came up our mountain, and there sat one upon him, one who was fairer far to see than any of the little dwarfs; he had black locks, and no beard, and a purple mantle. Was not that a man?”
“But a while ago a beautiful creature came up our mountain.”
The old witch was terror-stricken at this speech, and answered: “If he does but ride up here again, I will break his neck for him, and those in the valley shall never see him again!”
“Oh, mother! do not thus—he was so fair!”
“If thou dost think but once again of him, I tell thee I will lock thee in the cellar, and make thee weigh gold out night and day. As it is, thou art grown so idle in these latter times, and dost nought but sit there and ask useless questions! Hast thou not all thy heart can desire?”