The Storyteller Meets an Old Wife!

Although it was September, the sun was shining and the air was warm.  The Storyteller kicked his thirteen cats out of the cottage into his garden, locked the door and set off for a stroll.

He decided to make his way, through the woods, down to the river.  Just the sort of day for a lounge by the water, watching the fish and listening to the water voles going about their business.

He headed for his favourite spot but stopped in horror.  There, sitting on the river-bank was an old woman.  She was dressed in a tattered wedding dress and beside her, lying neglected in the grass, was  a brown and withered bouquet of what looked as if they may have been roses and lilies.

She was choking.

The Storyteller rushed over and hit her sharply on the back.  From her gnarled and nibbling mouth flew a carrot, an apple and some crusts of bread (actually, a pair of yellowed and cracked false teeth flew out as well, but she grabbed them quickly, crammed them back into her mouth and smiled yellow-ly at The Storyteller - so we won't mention them - oops, I just did...oh well).

"What on earth are you doing with all that in your gnarled and nibbling mouth?" asked The Storyteller.

"Well, you see..."  she grizzled.  "I'm an Old Wife and Old Wives have to live their lives by Old Wives Tales..."

The Storyteller looked back down at the mess in front of him.  An apple?  A carrot? Crusts?  His face cleared.

"Oh, so you are never ill?  You can see in the dark?  Your hair is...hang on...your hair isn't curly though is it?  In fact, straighter hair I have never seen!"

"Doesn't mean the Old Wives' Tales actually work." mumbled the Old Wife.  "We just have to live by them, whether they work or not."

She scratched her head with a nail (a fingernail NOT a hammering-in nail!)

The Storyteller's eyebrows shot up into his grey, glistening curls and his lopsided glasses nearly fell off his red bobbly nose.  The nail is question was at least three inches long, curled and swooping and a rather unfetching shade of beige.

"Eeurgh!!" he spluttered. 

The Old Wife looked at her nail in admiration.

"Ah well, you see, I can't cut my nails on a Friday but that's the only day I get the loan of a pair of nail scissors from the local manicure salon (they won't let me in there since I'm not good for business).  So my nails haven't been cut for years!"

The Storyteller stepped back a bit.

"Why are you dressed like that?" he asked, simply to cover his embarrassment. "Are you getting married?" (although he couldn't for one minute think who would want to marry this strange, and rather grubby, old woman).

"No, silly!" cackled the Old Wife.  "That's another thing - we have to look like wives and this was the best way I could think of.  Worn it for years, I have!"

The Storyteller was not surprised at that, the musty, but somehow rich, smell coming from the Old Wife was really quite overpowering.

He edged away.

"Where are you going?" shouted the Old Wife.

"Um, er, going to sit down over here, by the bridge." he replied nervously.

"THE BRIDGE?  NOT THE BRIDGE!!!" she screamed, her yellow teeth gnashing wildly at the air around her and dust mites flying off her clothes in all directions.

"Why ever not?" asked the Storyteller, more than a little concerned and looking around him for hidden dangers.

"BECAUSE..." and here she stopped.  Clasped her curly-nailed hand over her mouth and said..."oh, er, nothing...don't worry!" She giggled girlishly (which was quite horrific) and crept closer to The Storyteller.

As the afternoon wore on The Storyteller began to realise that the Old Wife was quite "taken" with him, stroking his bright red coat and asking, flirtingly, to try on his bright yellow hat.  He became quite desperate.  The situation was becoming quite worrying. 

"Is this what it's like to be stalked?" he wondered to himself and edged even closer to the bridge.

The Old Wife grabbed him firmly by the arm and pulled him back.  She shoved her mouldy and decaying bouquet in front of his nose and tried desperately to get him to sniff deeply. 

The Storyteller fought back, leapt to his feet and scampered onto the bridge. 

"Goodbye Old Wife!" he shouted despairingly and cantered across as fast as he could go.

A scream of absolute desperation and fear came from the spot where the Old Wife had been sitting.  The very air around the bridge shook and shivered with terror.

The Storyteller looked round.  Apart from an old, brown rosepetal, there was no sign of the Old Wife.

He looked into the river.  Was that a slight gurgle over there?  A bit of a whirlpool perhaps?  A crust crumb floated slowly to the surface.  A frown spread over The Storyteller's forehead.

"What on earth happened there?" he muttered.

He shook his head and went on his way.  The river settled to its normal course, calm and peaceful, the crust crumb floated lazily downstream until it was eaten by a passing duck.

The End.

Pardon?  What was that?  Not good enough you say?  Why?  Oh, I see, you want to know why the Old Wife disappeared!  Well, she said she had to live her life according to Old Wives' Tales didn't she?  There's a little known Old Wives' tale which says that if you want to get rid of a friend, say goodbye to her/him on a bridge.....see?

Of course The Storyteller didn't know that did he?   Or did he?  Hmmm.  Leave that one open I think.  (If you should meet him out on his travels, though, stay well away from all bridges - just in case!)