The Temporary Wife

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, the little woodcutter and his tall wife were seated at the table waiting when Steven woke up. He was served a hot mash for breakfast and ate heartily. When he had finished, his dish sat empty at his place. It was obvious that the couple had no intentions of moving from the table until Steven had told his story.

“Don’t we need to work this morning?” Steven asked. “I’ll happily help you chop wood.”

“Oh no,” said Upik. “There is no reason to chop wood today.”

“We have very few visitors up here since the castle sank beneath the lake,” said Rayna. “We would much rather listen to you. Please tell us about your hat.”

Steven had tossed restlessly all night trying to think of a good story to tell the two, and had come up with no ideas. The truth was that he had suddenly been overwhelmed with loneliness when he saw the man and wife acting as though they were one person, and he had dreamt all night of the sweetheart he had left three hundred forty-nine thousand one hundred twenty-one steps ago across the lake and across the river. But he had agreed to the bargain and would have to begin soon. He took another long drink of the hot beverage Rayna had served with breakfast and began, not quite knowing where he would end.

ONCE UPON A TIME, almost out of memory and before all journeys began, there lived an ogre named Bimptwiss. Once every four years, Bimptwiss would emerge from his cave in a valley where the fog never cleared and come to the town of Lorbridge. There he would stand outside the barricade the townspeople had erected against him and demand that they send out their fiercest warrior to do battle with him. If he was defeated, he promised, he would go away and leave the town forever. But if he were not, he would feast on the bones of the unfortunate warrior. If the townspeople refused to send a champion to meet the ogre, then Bimptwiss would rampage through the town killing and eating whom he would.

In the course of time, warrior after warrior was killed and eaten by the vicious ogre. Eventually, all the truly strong warriors were gone, and the village sent any unfortunate victim they could entice out into the field to meet the ogre. Finally, they resolved that they would choose the victim by lottery. One year and one day before the ogre’s arrival at the barricade to the town, all the villagers between 19 and 22 were assembled and the mayor of the town distributed lots to each. The unfortunate who drew the black pebble would be designated as the sacrifice to the ogre. But during the intervening year, that person would be treated like royalty. He or she would have whatever was desired, and everyone in the village did what they could to make their sacrifice’s last year as pleasant as possible.

It may seem strange, but so lavishly did the people treat their would-be hero that young people competed for the right. In fact, as word of the quadrennial festival spread through the land, people from near and far came to the town for the lottery, hoping that they would win the right to be the champion selected to fight the ogre.

And so it was that a young man named Gareth came to Lorbridge to seek great—though temporary—fame and fortune. Even though the lottery was random and impartial, hopefuls competed with each other in races, mock battles, and exotic cooking demonstrations. They created special crafts that they sold in the market so the townspeople could show their support by purchasing the trinkets. Gareth was not the most popular candidate in the foray, but he was a likeable lad and had his share of supporters. In the races he consistently was within the first three across the finish line. In mock battles, he was often the one who stood most staunchly in support of the winner. And, though some said it was an acquired taste, his dish of curried sheep’s eyes was one of the most unusual dishes sampled during the festival.

Few people, however, wanted to wear the peaked hats he made from sheepskin and sold in the market. Lorbridge was not a particularly cold place and people preferred less ostentatious headgear. Gareth, however, wore his own hat constantly and thus was one of the most recognizable candidates in the fray.

The big day of the lottery arrived and Gareth stood among the candidates. In order to make the lottery more exciting, the townspeople had decided to have qualifying rounds in the lottery. After each competition, one candidate was eliminated. Gareth had survived each elimination round and now—with fourteen candidates still in the running—the mayor passed around a hat with seven black stones and seven white stones in it to determine the finalists. Each candidate drew a stone. Then from another hat with an equal number of stones, the festival princess drew a stone. Its color would determine which group of candidates would proceed to the final round. The stone was white and Gareth cautiously opened his fist to reveal a white stone. There were now only seven candidates.

There was a great feast that night and the seven were seated at the head table where they were waited on in lavish fashion. Dancers and musicians entertained, a tame bear danced for the revelers, and an exotic man with a basket of snakes played a flute and caused the snakes to dance. It was a magical evening. But most important of all was the final lottery. Seven identical puddings were placed on the table before the champions. Some of the puddings, they were told, contained a pebble. The champions were to eat their pudding and if they got a pebble, they were to keep it in their mouths until the puddings were all gone. No one knew how many pebbles had been baked into the puddings.

When the pudding had been eaten, the seven stood before the townspeople and one at a time were asked to take the pebble from his or her mouth. Gareth was the third in line and the first to spit out a pebble. There were no other pebbles in the puddings. People were amazed that the competition had come to such an abrupt ending and complained that there was supposed to be another round of elimination, but the mayor’s decision was final. Gareth had “won” the competition. After the brief dispute, celebration and revelry went on all night long.

Gareth sat, enjoying the festival, but contemplating the doom that he had just accepted for himself. He knew that he now had one year to live. He would walk back through the town for the last time and face the ogre. Oh, certainly he would fight. He might even try to run. But doom was inevitable. He would die and be eaten by the vicious beast.

Now among the other finalists were both men and women, and among the women was one who had always been friendly to Gareth. Her name was Cybele and she had dark flashing eyes and a lively temperament. Gareth was amazed that this young woman had even come to the competition, but unlike him, she was from Lorbridge and was required to join the lottery. While all others who were native to the town had been eliminated early in the competition or in the final seven, by some miracle she had been successful until the last round. She approached Gareth congratulating him on his victory, and asked him to dance with her.

Cybele was seductive and charming and before the night was finished, Gareth was in love. Enamored of Gareth’s bravery and steeped in the town’s tradition of giving the champion whatever he wanted, Cybele accepted Gareth’s courtship and before long, the two were married in a celebration attended by the entire town. They were happy together, for Gareth was given all manner of wealth. They lived in the finest home in the town. They ate the finest foods prepared by the best cooks. Their home was cleaned for them. They had music wherever they went. And Gareth had found the love of his life.

But time marches on and the day of the ogre’s arrival approached. Gareth’s attention began gradually to turn from the delights of his lavish life to preparation for his meeting with the ogre. Having found such great, passionate, and intense love, he was unwilling to part with her. Yet he knew that if he did not face Bimptwiss, the ogre would rampage through the town Gareth had also learned to love, and would likely destroy his beloved as well.

So, Gareth went to all the shops of the town, to all the craftspeople, to all the herbalists and shamans, and asked their advice for fighting the ogre.

“What you need are feathers,” said the butcher. “Ogre’s can’t chew feathers.” And with that the butcher took Gareth’s pointed hat and decorated it with feathers so that the ogre would be unable to chew his head. Gareth left the butcher and did not hear him chuckling to himself.

“What you need is cunning,” said a wise woman. “You should be like a snake in the grass, slipping up on the ogre unseen until your venomous bite takes his life.” She wrapped a snakeskin around his hat and chanted that the slippery cunning of the snake would go into the wearer of the hat. Gareth left the wise woman and did not hear her sudden fit of laughter.

“What you need is a talisman,” said the shaman. “I have been far into the mountains where there is a forge run by smiths of the finest silver, gold, and iron. This talisman has protected me through all my journeys, both in this world and in the spirit world.” And with that, the shaman fastened the talisman to the snakeskin on the hat. Gareth left the shaman and did not see him pull a new talisman from his bag full of them.

“You need lunch,” said Cybele. “Don’t even think of going out without eating. You can’t be your best unless you have had a healthy meal.” The two were eating the remains of dinner the night before and to humor his darling wife, Gareth took a chicken bone and stuck it through the snakeskin on his hat.

“There,” he said. “Now if I feel in the need for a snack when I see the ogre, I will have one handy.” The two laughed the laughter of lovers and Cybele wept over Gareth.

“I love you,” she said. “You are so brave. You are willing to save our village, even if it means sacrificing your life for us.”