Come Little ChildrenA Story by Jessica Carter This story of a spirit of the forest was based upon a cover song of "Come Little Children". A horned spirit guards little children in the woods from danger must face the changes of her land.
They called the greatest of us the "Horned One", but I am no god but a sprit that wanders the woods singing to lost, frightened children. Now the days have become dark and my existence is owned up to mere demonic workings. As if my singing causes the young ones I watch over to become unclean and pagan. As the cross ever comes closer to my little forest, I feel the burn become hotter.
The village that was nestled next to my woods in a small fruitful valley was quiet and peaceful. For centuries I would lead the poor little ones from dangers by using my voice. When a girl fell and ripped her dress, I sang to her and mended it. When a boy cut his hand or scraped his knee I would sing and show them the dragons asleep in the dark caves under the cool earth. They were my children, and I was their mother of the wood. A gentle deer spirit who guided them until my voice was only a sweet memory in adulthood. My footsteps walked down the path I traveled everyday to the edge of the woods where the children always played, always waited for me to come for them. My dark amber hair blew in the wind, sometimes my bangs would caress the blacken antlers that wrapped around the sides of my head stemming from my temple. My black dress swirled about my hooved feet like mists on the lake. They heard the soft thunks of them as I approached. Their loud, playful voices hushed as my image broke through the tree line and I smiled softly at them. "Come children." I sang sweetly to them, my gentle power over them caused their little bare feet to rush to my side, rush into my woods were anything was theirs. Any dreams or wishes could be held in their hands for a moment or longer if they liked. Deep in my forest, where time did not exist, I sat upon the Druid rock and sang to them. All of their eyes lay upon me, their ears open in wonder to the world I had shown them, but the cross came closer like a howling beast. I could not protect them if it should come to their village for it has had a power over my people. I just sang to them as long as I could, as long as they followed my hoof prints, as long as they dared to dream of magic, spirits and the old way. It came, and my prayers were not answered. A building of stone and wood was created in front of the path I took and a cross was erected high in the sky. It was a warning to all who did not belong to them to leave or be taken and eaten in its jaws. The light in the children's eyes were lost and soon I could feel that they had no dreams, no wishes, and no desire to listen to my songs. Only a few stayed behind, only a handful filled my little circle around the stone I sat upon to sing my stories. They held on tightly to the old way of life that they fondly remember and was passed down from generation to generation. I ventured on the outskirts of the village one cold morning, my cape hung over my head to hide my true form from the mortals that filled the square. The robed men of the cross screamed and shouted sins and acquisitions at a small row of people tied to long stakes of wood. Puzzled as I was, I came closer to watch not understanding their tongue. The people in the crowd had stern faces, full of hate or solemn judgment, but their scents stank of fear. Only the children stood watching their parents with no fear, only sorrow at what was going on. When the row of people answered the robed men, whose wicked faces only flared in anger, they descended upon each and every one of them with torches. It was the first time I stood in horror watching mortals burn alive for a crime of what they called witchcraft. It had been done to the people of the old ways and the spirits suffered for it. The children, my little children, watched their parents die. They were all alone…so very alone. They were the ones who suffered more than anyone. After the burning of the witches, I took them in. I would feed them the bounty of the forest, I would clothe them with the finest fabric the Good Folk could spin and teach them about life, love and equality. They had become my children, and I their beloved mother. Life was good for a time, life was fair but they of the cross would not allow such things to go on. They would always take such heathen happiness away. Become one of them and live in misery under the looming cross, or die. The forest was dark and my children around me slept peacefully when they came. Robed in white, vessels of hatred clothed in angelic colors, came the bearers of the jealous cross shouting at my family, my innocent children. Their eyes gazed upon me and their lips uttered a name to call me; demon. The men rushed me and held me down as they chanted their silly incantations to send me to the fire and pain they did not exist in my world. One then bore a hot iron of the twisted cross and branded upon my chest. I could feel everything, the peeling of the skin, boiling of the blood, and the closer I had ever felt to the mortal realm all because the power of that symbol. It would not kill me, but make me mortal and I would lose my connection to the world between worlds. My sweet children threw rocks at them and bit at their ankles till their vile hands left me. They screamed for me to run. Run away. Be free. And so I did, I left them to their fate of the robed men. What a cowered I am. The trees felt sharper and I did not glide through the forest floor as I once did. Tripping onto the shore, I fell before the lake and saw the image of myself, frightened, scared with a cross and alone. My hooves were gone and replaced by human feet, my body felt cold like ice, and I could not see the spirits I felt around me. All that was left was my horned crown sprouting from my temples. I could feel it deep inside myself, I was on the edge of being mortal, and I could not live through the centuries in this body anymore. I would someday die. The fact was like lightning in my heart and I trembled holding myself tightly staring down at what I had become. Little lights floated about in a line a small distance from me and I hoped that I had regained my once spiritual form. Following them closely I discovered it to be only lamps of the robed men and, with their hands bound, were my children trailing behind. An old shack, abandoned due to the Druid who once lived there had passed, they corralled them inside and placed large stones in front of the door. Curious thing they should do, but once they are gone I shall free my children. Sadly, those few moments as I watched, I lost faith in all mankind. Oil was thrown on the wooden frames of the hut and set ablaze with the children screaming and crying inside. My eyes widen in absolute horror and dread as I watched the robed men walk away. Only one stood making an odd gesture with his hands on his chest and across his shoulders whispering to them, "Thou shout not let a witch live, not even its spawn." They left them there to die, to burn for just being with me, being in my company. What had I done? I ran to them yelling that I would get them out, but the fire was so wild and strong I could only claw weakly at the burning walls. Out from a small hole, a child's hand reached out calmly to grasp mine. Their cries had stopped and only coughs and sniffles could be heard. I understood and so I sang to them one last time before the little hand let go of mine and disappeared in the orange and red flames. The morning light revealed the burnt house in ruins and the chard bones of the children, huddled together, holding on to one another as they died. I sat among their fragile bodies and wept for them. Their little innocent life was snuffed out without mercy and I, weakened, could do nothing but watch. My hand caressed the black skull of each of them knowing each little life it held and dreams they dreamt. They should have lived, passed down their knowledge and I would watch over their children, their children's children…and so on and so forth forever. My eyes grew dark and I knew what must be done; a life for a life. So as dusk fell on the village, I walked into it and bared each and every window and door I could find. Quiet, and slowly I poured the oil on the foundations and roves of each hut and house leaving the building that stood the cross upon it for last. When all was done, I let the fire touch the clear liquid dripping down the buildings and with the wind as my help, their village and home of the robed men went up in flames. Their screams did not reach my ears as I walked away from them, the village, my forest and the grave of my children. I was cursed with mortality and I began my long life alone away from this place of memory. I rose up my voice to the great Horned One of my people in mourning. © 2012 Jessica CarterAuthor's Note
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Added on June 28, 2012Last Updated on June 28, 2012 Tags: paganism, horned god, short story, fairy tale Author
Jessica CarterSevierville , TNAboutHello everyone! My name is Jessica, but Jesse is pretty much fine with me. If you wanna know something weird on the internet they tend to call me Edward due to the fact it was my pen name for a ver.. more..Writing
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