Dam Trudy: Grimms' Fairytale #43

Once upon a time there was a pig farmer’s daughter who disliked work but did like to complain, and she dreamt all day of a life of leisure with sweets and servants and fashionable clothes. She eventually married a milliner and moved into town, thinking she would wear the finest of hats and be admired by the townsfolk, but the milliner enjoyed his ale more than his work of making hats, and she found herself almost as poor and work-laden as she had been on the farm, with the added humiliation of the pitying looks of the townsfolk she’d hoped to impress. When she found herself with child, she began to imagine how this might be a second chance for her own happiness. She would give birth to a fine son who would grow up to be a successful businessman, banker, or barrister and restore her reputation and her rightful position in town. As her belly grew, her dreams of grandeur became more vivid, and so it was a dreadful disappointment when she gave birth to a baby girl. It had been a difficult birth, and the doctor told her she’d never bear another child. She wailed and railed and pushed the baby away, back into the midwife’s arms and was entirely inconsolable by her fraught and fuddled husband.

Resigned to their fate of only having one child, one that would cost them a dowry instead of bringing them riches, they named the baby girl Marigold. To make the best of their bad luck, they resolved to raise Marigold into a perfect bride, one docile and dutiful enough to attract a wealthy husband. Despite being treated like a bitter disappointment by her parents, the blue eyed copper haired little girl was kind, clever, and spirited. She loved learning to read and paint and dance but she hated needlework, cooking, and etiquette lessons to the point of rebellion. Marigold would throw her embroidery into the fireplace and her mother would twist her ear and snarl that she’d be fit for nothing better than the black man, the lowly collier with his charcoal pit hut in the woods. She would boil the eggs to bursting and her mother would yank her by the elbow and tell her she’d be married off to the green man, to skin squirrels and rabbits caught by the coarse hunter’s snares. Marigold would rip the ribbons from her hair and run barefoot into the garden and climb trees and her mother would chase her, thrash her soundly, and yell that she’d be plighted to the red man, the butcher, who’d chop off her useless fingers and toes for sausages.

Despite Marigold’s unruly behaviour, her parents managed to procure a wealthy suitor for her and one day the white man arrived in a lavish black four horse carriage. He’d made his fortune in cotton and wore a snow-white linen shirt, waistcoat, and breeches with a pale grey overcoat. Under his black top hat, he was completely bald with a trim white moustache and beard and cold grey eyes, and he carried a riding crop that he snapped against the side of his black boot whenever he was displeased. The marriage was held that same day and Marigold felt the welting sting of that riding crop before nightfall, and so the moment he was distracted, she ran from his estate and off into the dark woods.

Marigold had been warned by her parents to never go into the woods, especially at night. She had been told terrifying tales of an old hag witch named Dam Trudy who lived in the heart of the dark forest and turned children into little squealing swine, chopped them up and stewed them in her cauldron, and ate them for her supper. Marigold was more frightened of what lay in store for her at the hands of her new old husband, and so she ran and ran, deeper and deeper into the forest. In the night’s shadows, she saw the black man who chased her, his sooty fingers catching at her nightdress. She tore away, running faster as the arrows from the green man wisped by her, catching at her long copper locks. Eventually she collapsed on the ground and fell asleep, but the red man came for her in a dream, covered in blood and brandishing his butcher knife. She woke in a fit of terror and plunged further into the forest.

What Marigold did not know was that these phantoms of men, actually branches and brambles of the forest catching at her hair and clothes as she ran, were helping her escape a very real danger that chased her. As soon as he'd discovered her missing, the white man had fetched her parents and the three went searching for her, hunting her down in the night with a pack of hounds. It wasn’t until almost dawn when the girl heard the braying of the dogs in the distance and came upon a small shack deeply shaded by enormous cedar trees and crowded hazel bushes so that it was rife with magic. She was caught between two horrors, the folklore of a witch or the reality of a heinous husband and his hounds, and so she peeked in the window and saw an old lady sitting in a chair by the fire. The woman turned suddenly to look at her with the face of a demon, with horns on her head, and her frizzy hair all afire. Then just as suddenly, her face returned to that of a sweet old woman with concern in her eyes.

As Marigold backed away from the cottage, the old woman came out and beckoned to her with a reassuring smile. The girl could hear the hounds nearer now and followed her inside and warmed herself by the fire while the old woman poured boiling water into a clay mug and handed it to her. There were leaves and twigs swirling and floating in the water, and she hesitated.

“Drink, girl. You’ll need strength to face what follows you.”

“Are you a witch?” Marigold asked, “Will you boil me up and eat me?”

The old woman did not laugh. “I’m not a witch. I am a healer and helper for good and kindly folk.”

“You had the face of the devil,” the girl whispered.

“That side of me is kept within for the other kind of folk. I was asleep, and you surprised me, is all.” She watched the girl with murky gentle eyes. “I will not hurt you. Finish your tea.”

Marigold was beginning to not only feel warm, but her innermost being was sparked and invigorated, as though a summer stream burbled along her spine and flushed out into her legs and arms and head as it became more powerful, rushing into a river that swept through her until she swooned. The old woman caught her in deceptively powerful hands and lowered the fainted girl into the chair by the fire.

“What happened?” Marigold asked as she woke a few moments later, feeling better and stronger than she’d ever felt before.

“You’ve got your spirit back, is all. They tried to take it from you, but it is always there, unbreakable.” The old healer looked out her window with a serious face. The hounds weren’t baying anymore but were coming into the small clearing and sniffing excitedly at the ground and bushes. “We’re out of time. They’re here.” Marigold jumped up, ready to dash off again.

“No need to run, girl. What you don’t have yet, I’ll lend you.” She stepped close to her and looked into the girl’s bright blue eyes. “Do not be afraid. We are protected here, by the power of the forest, the spirits of the ancient trees. All you need do is think calmly and clearly of what you want, and it will be so, child.” She took the girl’s hand and led her to the door, pushing it open just as the trio of her parents and the white man entered the clearing with faces twisted in threat and anger. The dogs were snarling, snapping and barking madly, but would not approach the door.

“Now think, girl.” The old woman whispered, and Marigold closed her eyes. Instantly, there was silence as the vicious dogs fell to the ground and transformed into fire logs. The man and her parents stopped, shocked, but before they could turn or run away themselves, they too fell to the ground and were transformed into farm pigs. The white man became a white pig with black and grey spots and her mother and father were pink and fat and began squealing and running in circles.

“Well done, girl.”

Marigold opened her eyes and observed the scene with delighted amazement. The old woman nodded at her with a soft smile and went back inside, so Marigold gathered up the wood logs for the fire and herded the pigs into a quickly fashioned rope pen. The fire burned extraordinarily bright as the two women sat talking. Marigold stayed with Dam Trudy, learning everything she could from the old healer, and after a few months, she herded her three hogs out of the woods and home, back to her late grandfather’s farm. She sold the milliner’s shop in town and lived quietly and happily ever after, although the townsfolk did talk. There was whispered a cautionary tale to never peek through Dam Mari’s window for, if you were the wrong sort of folk, greedy or mean-hearted, she would borrow the devil’s face and turn you into one of her many pigs.