Chapter Six
Impossible Tasks, the Danger of Youth and Beauty and Help
Vanimelda trudged along.
She wasn't happy about this. And many times, her instincts, her mind- everything about her, screamed at her to go back.
Why did she have to go for people who made her miserable, anyway? For a little light?
But she knew that if she went back, she would regret it. It was easy doing something for the people you care about. The ones that treated you well. But the ones that didn't… That was the true test.
Inwardly she groaned. She was a young elf, and she had done much worse at such a young age. But good grief, it was still trying. She was more resistant to pain and weariness than humans and even dwarves but she still hated every second of this journey.
Sapzôr. Who was this witch that could suck youth and beauty from maidens? She sounded like Thuringwethil the vampire herald of Morgoth, except that she was, according to her mother, of Dark Númenórean descent.
She would otherwise appear as a terrible old crone, if she didn't suck beauty in time.
Finally, she reached her destination. Mentally drained more than anything, Vanimelda all but collapsed, leaning against a tree-trunk.
"This is depressing," she said unhappily to Almarië. The doll looked at her but said nothing.
"Rest," she said. "I'll take watch."
Vanimelda mumbled her thanks and fell into a deep sleep.
After a while, she felt the Almarië's hands shake her. "Wake up, Melda! Wake up!"
Vanimelda snapped awake. "What?"
Almarië didn't answer, just jerked her head towards something in the distance. A human wouldn't be able to see anything, but Vanimelda saw it, clear as day.
Something very, very odd. Something like a big bowl- what in Arda? And with- a broom? And- was it a big club?"
She blinked, not believing her eyes. There, sitting comfortably within the bowl, was the ugliest human Vanimelda had ever seen- apart from Ceorl and Gríma.
She was ragged, to say the least. With the most wretched skin. A dried-up prune or a raisin would be smoother by far than she was, like someone had put a mix of thick half-dried clay, wrinkled into a thick mask, egg-yolks and spoiled milk on her. Her hair was nearly gone, thin, string-like and the dirtiest grey Vanimelda had ever seen. And she had warts, larger than a toad's, though thankfully, not as plentiful.
And she was riding the flying bowl.
The woman cackled- she could hear it from a distance. She was rowing herself through the skies with the club-thing.
"How old is she?" Vanimelda muttered to Almarië.
"She has been here since the Dark Númenóreans were called the King's Men and colonised and invaded a number of territories in Middle-Earth," Almarië explained. "And she was expelled from their ranks. Apparently she was too dangerous and terrifying for them."
"Too dangerous and too terrifying for the King's Men?" Vanimelda said in disbelief. "And too wildly independent. She did not make her allegiances to their cause and their king, I'm afraid. She only laughed at them. They feared her and her power- seemingly immortal, and like the elves and the Valar, were jealous of her. She did not seem to be fanatical towards them. They never trusted her, even if they didn't fear her." Almarië finished.
"Huh." Vanimelda replied. "She's coming closer."
Almarië sighed. "Are you still sure about this?"
"Would I have a choice to turn away later?" Vanimelda asked. "Come inside the pack."
The pack was hidden in the folds of her dress.
Finally, the witch came.
She was singing and cackling to herself, and used her broom to sweep up her tracks once she had landed on the ground and moved in front of…
A house.
Oh, what a house.
It was made of wood, dark and terrifying but even worse were the skulls. There were skulls crowning the fence-posts and next to the front door on the veranda. There were skulls on lamp-posts, glowing brightly through their eye orbits and grinning teeth. And they had all started glowing the minute she came close to descending upon the ground. The house had been invisible before.
This is what you face, Estela's voice was heard inside her mind. Take caution and be on your guard at all times. Say the right things to her.
Right in cue, just as she had landed, three horsemen strode past. They had no eyes, no hair, no skin visible, but they were in the shapes of men. One rode a horse as white as milk, and wore a head-to-toe suit of the exact same shade. Another's horse as red as a tomato as was his suit. And the last was a deep blue-black as was his horse. They all strode past, and without so much as stopping or glancing at anything, mysteriously disappeared into the woods.
Sapzôr chuckled. She got out of the bowl, mumbling and singing happily to herself, with a grunt and a heave. She stretched in her ragged peasant's dress and placed her hands on her back. Several loud cricks of her bones were heard. She sighed blissfully and chuckled again. The gate swung open and the witch strode in. But then she froze.
"I know you're there," she grinned. "Come out, now. You don't want me to eat you now, do you?"
Swallowing, Vanimelda stepped out.
She heard the witch inhale sharply and hiss in shock. "An elf. And the beautiful one I've ever seen at that! Bless me, I haven't had an elf since that magic changed me! And that wasn't even a proper feeding either, that ceremony!"
Vanimelda made a curtsey.
"What's your name girl?" The witch sounded amused. "And don't you know better than to trespass into my place especially at the dead of night? Or do you think that as an elf you would be immune to my powers?"
"I believe no such thing, my lady," Vanimelda said demurely. "I am merely on an errand."
"An errand?" The witch sounded intrigued. "Do tell."
"My foster-mother and father," Vanimelda swallowed. "They are unable to keep any light on in their house. They need light."
The witch threw back her head and laughed a laugh that would make an orc's blood run cold.
"Aye, you'll get your light," she said amused. "But you'll have to do the cooking and the cleaning and all the housekeeping duties while I'm away. Otherwise, I'll take your beauty. And do you know what happens to an elf-maiden when I take her beauty?"
Vanimelda swallowed her fear.
"The first elf I sucked out of, and drank her blood. I was bound in this state- needing youth and beauty as the source of my powers. I was able to suck it out of every pretty maid I saw. Only humans, so far. The second time I suck out another elf-maiden's… Well. I won't need any more. And I'll be the most beautiful and the most powerful, judging what I see from you.
"But don't worry," she laughed. "I won't take it from you- if you do what you're told at least. I can give you my binding blood-oath, if it makes things easier. Until you get your light." She drew a crude knife and hacked a deep gash inside her gnarled palm. Deep, dark blood, almost as black as an orcs oozed through the opening. "Hold out your hand." Vanimelda did as she was told.
The witch grasped it. Suddenly, Vanimelda felt something surge through her, as if Sapzôr was putting something within her, and taking something out in return.
"There." She said. "Now go into the house and fetch me supper. I need food and beer and I need them now, understood?"
Vanimelda nodded. She did this before. And she was going to do this now. Except now, she was in more danger than before. And it wasn't just for her life.
Vanimelda laid out a big meal and beer saving some morsels for Almarië. Later that night, the witch went to bed and her snores shook the whole house. Rolling her eyes Vanimelda was left to find the cleanest and softest bit of the floor after she made a meal for Almarië.
The doll shook her head. "Eat something with me." But Vanimelda had lost most of her appetite.
Almarië woke her in the morning, before dawn and before Sapzôr could do it herself.
"Clean the house- sweep it, and make her breakfast. Just look like you're doing it. And then make her bed. I'll do the rest after she's gone."
Vanimelda took up the broom Almarië indicated and started to sweep. After a while, she could hear the snores dissipate and a loud groan as Sapzôr got up out of bed, and went to the kitchen.
Putting the kettle on, she made some tea flavoured with mint she had brought with her. Making a big bowl of oatmeal porridge, mixed with dates, sweet nuts in rich milk, she heated it on the stove, and started- on her own foresight- to prepare Sapzôr a packed lunch to consume later.
The witch's deformed jaw dropped when she saw the elf-maiden setting the hot breakfast on the table. But she grunted and said nothing, scowling as she heaved herself onto the table, while Vanimelda went off to make her bed.
She wolfed down her breakfast and by the time she had finished, Vanimelda had already made the beds, swept the floors and handed her a packed lunch. Sapzôr did not give the slightest thanks. "Make sure you have supper ready by the time I've returned. Oh, and there are pearls in the back garden that you have to find. There are herbs, yes. And fungi, yes. And many plants that I use for my potions, a number of them deadly. But there are also pearls buried beneath the grass of the lawn. A thousand of them to be precise. Get them out, and I won't suck you dry. That and do all the housekeeping- the cleaning, the laundry, the silver that needs to be polished, the rug that needs to be beaten, the tables scrubbed and waxed, the mundane vegetable garden that needs to be watered and tended. The beer needs brewing. The fires need kindling. And food needs cooking for my supper and breakfast." She grinned a ghastly smile with rotten teeth. "I admit child, I'm surprised. But it'll take a lot more for you to do not to have me suck you dry. What's your name anyway?"
Vanimelda swallowed. "My foster-parents call me Kráka."
"'Crow'?" The witch threw back her head and a shrill laugh that terrified every bird outside was heard. "Very well then, Kráka. I'll be back a few hours after dusk." She stormed out of the house. Outside her bowl- a mortar, Vanimelda realised, was waiting. And the club-thing, which was actually a pestle, rested nearby. A broom flew into the air, and rested itself within the bowl.
Sapzôr climbed in. Once she was comfortable enough, she started to mutter words and chants and then off she went, rowing her pestle and sweeping the tracks left by the mortar with the broom until it flew into the air.
Vanimelda went back inside the house.
"Just clear the dishes, scrub and wax the table," Almarië said, emerging from her hiding place in the pantry. "Then go out into the garden. After you've watered the plants and tended them, search for the pearls. Then cook supper. I'll do the rest."
Vanimelda could not even ask how Almarië planned to do the rest. She washed and dried the dishes, putting them away and scrubbed the table with soap and waxed it- Almarië was already polishing the silver. With shock, Vanimelda realised they were dwarven-made silver. How did she get them? Dwarves didn't trade with anyone they deemed suspicious. For all the prickliness and mistrust between dwarves and elves, they traded well. But never Dark Númenóreans who deemed themselves worthier and far better than any other race who deserved to be enslaved in their own eyes.
Pushing aside her mounting horror, as she realised what Sapzôr must have done to the dwarves, Vanimelda went to the garden as Almarië had already finished and was now doing the laundry. Vanimelda helped her carry it outside, but Almarië insisted she worked on the garden now. She pruned and tended the plants and watered them.
Then she needed to get started on the pearls.
Inwardly, she despaired. There was no sign of anything being buried in the garden. And she did not think Sapzôr would be happy if she dug everything up. The garden itself was very bare, with no flowers, apart from the ones growing on the athelas weed, which was allowed to flourish.
Then she heard her mother's voice. Sing.
"What?" She asked aloud. Just sing, trust me, Vanimelda.
Taking a deep breath, she sand a lullaby that her mother used to sing before she went to sleep. Bed and rest were what she wanted, and the previous night's sleep had been lacking. But she made herself sing. Her heart ached as she remembered the times her mother sang it to her.
Suddenly, when she finished, all was silent.
Except that she wasn't alone. Opening her eyes, she saw that sparrows had landed in front of her- a large flock of them. One of them chirped, and hopped daintily towards her.
Smiling, Vanimelda held out her hand. The sparrow chirped again and hopped upon it. She cooed to the little bird. Searching her pocket for the piece of bread she had saved for herself, she fed the sparrows.
They happily ate the bread. Speak to them. Her mother's voice said. Tell them to find the pearls.
Befuddled, Vanimelda did as she was told, speaking in Quenya, her cradle-tongue, just as her mother said.
The sparrow in her hand chirped. Then it darted off and headed into the ground. The other sparrows scattered, diving everywhere in the garden. A number went behind the bushes. She could hear the sounds of tiny beaks burrowing.
Then one of them emerged, bursting from behind the bushes. It held a gleaming, shining white orb in its beak which it deposited on Vanimelda's lap. Vanimelda gently stroked the bird. Almarië appeared and had a large bowl of water in her hands which she set next to Vanimelda, giving her a cloth. Vanimelda dipped the cloth in the water and gently washed the dirt from the sparrow as Almarië disappeared and the next of the sparrows came. Again, it dropped a pearl, and Vanimelda proceeded to clean it.
This continued until a mass of shining, glistening-white pearls were in Vanimelda's lap. One thousand. She counted them all.
The sparrows chirped.
"Hantanyel órenyallo," she whispered. The sparrows cheeped happily, and then left.
Vanimelda gathered up her apron. She re-entered the house and gasped.
The house was gleaming clean- even more spotless than it had been before.
The tables were gleaming, freshly-waxed and scrubbed. The silver glowed. The floor had not the single speck of dust or dirt. The rugs were soft and fluffy, a richer colour than before when it was dulled. The wooden tops of the bench, the counter, the pantry doors and cabinets, had a sheen that spoke of fragrant wood and the sheets in the bedroom were soft, fresh and white, not a wrinkle in sight.
"Oh, good." Almarië said. "You have the pearls. "Now leave them here," she indicated the box on the table. And get the laundry, please?" She nodded, mutely.
Vanimelda got the laundry, hung on the washing-line. She helped Almarië fold them and store them. "Now make the supper, I'll draw the beer. Then set the table. It's already dusk. Tomorrow, we'll have to make food- make and cure sausages, brew beer and so forth."
"I'll make something for you to eat as well," Vanimelda mumbled. "You too," Almarië said sharply. "You've barely eaten anything."
Vanimelda made a grilled lamb, with spices and tiny raisins, basting it in sauces and its own fat in the fire. Almarië brought kindling. Fresh fruits were washed and sliced, placed in a bowl for later consumption. She also gathered and boiled wild rice, and chunks of the meat were placed for a rich stew, with bits of cabbage, garlic and spices. Almarië drew the beer and placed the mug on the table.
They ate their own dinner- small in comparison to Sapzôr's meal. But then again, Sapzôr had a massive appetite.
They washed the dishes quickly, dried them and stored them, cleaning up the table for good measure, then laid the table for Sapzôr's meal.
Sure enough, Vanimelda heard something, and Almarië went to hide. Blinking, she smoothed down her apron, and went outside.
There, the mortar was in sight. But instead of the old crone, there was someone else riding inside it.
A most beautiful young woman, reminiscent of Indis and Idril Celebrindal was in Sapzôr's place. Her golden hair shone and glowed, like the sun's rays, curling in loose curls and soft waves and her skin was flawless- the exact same shade and colour as cream and just as smooth, her features were finely-chiselled and her blue-green eyes were heavy-lidded. She was slender and willowy, compared to the thick, solid Sapzôr, and her teeth were white and gleamed, as she smiled from her full lips, which made a perfect oval when pressed together. She rowed gracefully with her slender arms.
Vanimelda blinked as the mortar landed a distance away and moved forwards until it reached the front door, spewing clouds of dust and dirt and tracks which the maiden swept away with a broom in her other hand.
She smirked at Vanimelda, with shining teeth, and stood. She was tall, and graceful, gowned in shimmering green and golds. She daintily stepped out of the mortar.
"What's the matter girl," She chuckled in a smooth, melodious voice like honey. "Don't you recognize me?"
Vanimelda felt ice flood her entire being as she realised what Sapzôr had done. She had sucked out youth and beauty from a maiden- or more.
Vanimelda turned paler than the moon and grasped the porch railing before she fell. She swallowed.
"Ahhh," Sapzôr smiled. "There they are." As if on cue, the same horsemen she had seen the previous day moved forwards and then disappeared into the woods in the night.
"Now, have you done what I asked for?" Sapzôr asked. "Or shall I suck the youth and beauty from you too? Believe me," she reached out with a slender, creamy hand and stroked Vanimelda's cheek with her perfect fingernails. "I would love nothing more." She had put her beautiful face so close to Vanimelda and she felt her breath, as fragrant as mint. Vanimelda was ice-cold.
Sapzôr chuckled. She withdrew her hand and face. It was free of warts and her cheekbones were high and defined, the nose thin and delicately-tapered and chiselled. Her gem-like eyes were at once menacing and mesmerising. She was terrifying the same way a beautiful, gleaming sword was when it was about to strike one dead.
"Where's my supper?"
Vanimelda opened the door. Sapzôr entered the house, then froze.
She had succeeded beyond doubt.
The witch could not overcome her shock, apparently. Gaping, she noted the warm fire, with good kindling stocked nearby, the gleaming wood everywhere, the soft rug and the delicious-smelling food, steaming from the dishes, just waiting for her.
She snapped her mouth shut. She strode over the table and Vanimelda went to the corner, and waited silently as despite her dainty appearance, Sapzôr's appetite and manners were just as ugly as it was before.
Vanimelda laid bread out in a dish, just in case, and Sapzôr tore a chunk without saying a word, her eyes fixed on Vanimelda's and took a swig from her tankard of beer before dipping the bread in it, and tearing it with her teeth. She watched Vanimelda, as she wolfed everything down, stew, wild rice, lamb, everything. The lamb's juices leaked out of the chunks she had bitten and ran down her smooth chin yet she took no notice of the napkin Vanimelda laid out for her, and fixed her eyes on the maiden instead. She then took a peach slice and bit into it, squirting juices everywhere as she looked at Vanimelda.
Finally she was finished.
"I'm going to bed," she said. And Vanimelda immediately cleared the dishes and began to wash them and dry them. She put them away and cleaned the table, the bench and the floor. Sapzôr's sharp eyes watched her still, trying to deduce her secrets, but seeing that she was a diligent worker.
"I have animals that need feeding," she said to her. "Tomorrow, you'll find the pens and my magic will let you through. Also, I have another task. I dropped a key into the well outside, just a few days ago. Bring it back, for me, little pet. Do everything that I have told you, and make food. There are pigs that need to be slaughtered, and made into sausages. Beer needs to be brewed. Bread baked and on top of it all, my regular meals and the housework I mentioned." She smirked. "Do this, and I'll let you live, one more day." Laughing a golden laugh that was as chilling as the one she had as a crone, she retired. Being beautiful didn't stop her snoring an earthquake inside her room. Vanimelda let out a breath.
How in the world, despite all they had done today, could they do what they were told, tomorrow?
If you want to imagine what the young, beautiful Sapzôr looks like, imagine Ingrid Pitt from Countess Dracula! That gorgeous and frightening. Her powers sound similar to Ravenna's from Snow White and the Huntsman, but they're different as well. I didn't think of Ravenna immediately when I thought Sapzôr up!
Hantanyel órenyallo, means "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart."
Sethiel- Thanks! I really appreciate it!
I welcome reviews- but if they have to be critical, have it constructive criticism, not pointless insults. I wouldn't put anything cruel on anyone's story, so please don't do it to mine- like one cowardly 'guest' did to my previous story- pointless, stupid, thoroughly-dumb and brainless and didn't even read beyond one chapter. That person had no brains to fill an egg-cup. And too cowardly to leave anything but the title of 'guest' behind- couldn't even say an insult face-to-face.