The windfairies, and other tales

by Mary De Morgan

“Why, it would kill her,” cried the ploughman.

“Not at all,” said the gnome, “neither would it hurt her, for she would scarcely feel my little knife; the only thing is, that when I have done, her skin will be rather black and shrivelled like my own, but as mine has been good enough for me all these years, it will surely be good enough for a common human woman. Anyhow, now you know. I must have your wife’s complexion to wear with her hair, or else I go at once. And as it will be you who have broken the compact, I shall take all your wealth with me.” And repeating in a deep voice, “Remember, this day week at twelve o’clock,” the gnome grew small, and disappeared through the hole.

Next day the ploughman was very miserable, and whenever he looked at his wife felt inclined to burst into tears. The wife, not knowing what was amiss, tried to cheer him, and asked if he were ill. But he shook his head, and told her “no,” and had not the courage to tell her the truth. Thus things went on, the ploughman growing sadder and sadder every day, till the evening before that on which the gnome had told him he must bring his wife to meet her. The ploughman was scarce able to check his sobs before his wife, and at last she came into the kitchen, and there found him crying outright.

When she saw this, she kneeled down by him, and said, “Husband, you surely do not think me a good wife, for a good wife shares all her husband’s troubles. Tell me what troubles you. Two heads are better than one, and perhaps I can help you.”

Then the ploughman told her all about the hated gnome, and how he had found it in a field, and how he had promised to give it some of the best of everything, and now how it wanted her face.

At first the wife would scarcely believe it, and then she cried, “But if ’tis such a little creature why not pick it up and strangle it, or let me put my foot on it, while it is no bigger than a black beetle.”

“Nay, do not think of such a thing,” said her husband, “for it is ill to play tricks with fairy folk, and most likely she would kill us outright.”

“But part with my face I never will,” cried the wife.

“Then we will let her go and take with her the house and all our wealth, and be contented to live in my old cottage again, and be quite poor folk,” said her husband.

On hearing this the wife burst into tears, and wept more bitterly than her husband, for she would not stop at all. It was in vain for him to try to cheer her and tell her that poor folk could be quite as happy as rich ones. She declared she could never be happy poor. Then when he said if she would let her face go, he would love her just as much or more without it, she cried that she could never be happy with a dreadful shrivelled black skin like a monkey’s. All that night she cried, and when morning came her skin was all red, and her eyes could scarce be seen, so swelled were their lids, but still she cried on all day, and her husband said nothing to comfort her, because he did not know what to say. By the time it grew dark, her face was so swelled and sore that she could not bear to touch it, and she had cried herself almost blind, but still the tears were rolling down. When the time came for the clock to strike twelve, her husband took her hand and led her to the kitchen, and there she sat with her face in her hands sobbing. Just as the clock struck, they heard the voice like thunder shouting, “Stop! I am coming up,” and the wife peeped between her fingers and saw the little thing no bigger than a black beetle come through the hole and then grow, and grow, and grow, till it was like an ugly little black woman near a foot high. And when she saw how hideous it was she thought, “Never, never will I consent to have a skin like that—not for millions of pounds.”