(My riff on The Tales of Beedle the Bard.)

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There once was a family who lived in a distant land. The father was revered in the village for his wisdom, the mother for her gentleness, and their son for his courage. They lived in a bountiful land until it came to pass that the prince of the land, a vain and foolish tyrant, demanded greater tribute from all residing in his dominion. He increased taxes, punished dissenters, and diverted half of the river to water his pleasure garden. When the rains ceased, the river began to dry, and famine spread starvation through the land. Yet, the taxes remained, the punishments continued, and the river water was reserved for princely pleasures.

The famine continued six years. And in that time, Death was a constant visitor to the land. On one particular day, wearied by the exertion of his labors, Death paused in the shade of a hut, beside a parched broom tree, on the edge of a nearly-deserted village. The inhabitants who could flee had fled; many others had already been collected by Death, who sat very thirsty and wishing his workload could be reduced: He found no cheer in collecting children and trees.

While he rested, Death noticed a boy of twelve approach the hut, his arms filled with scavenged kindling. Death sighed, this boy too was on his list for next week. Death got to his feet and followed the boy to the door. He knocked.

The father opened the door and saw Death at the threshold in the guise of a pleasant young man. The young man introduced himself as a traveler and asked if he might have a drink of water. The father bade the traveler to come in out of the afternoon heat and sit comfortably. His son was occupied building a cook fire and his wife was about to prepare the day’s bread. The mother glanced sadly at the family’s water jar. Her husband perceived the glance and told the stranger that there was only enough left for a small ration for each of them, but they would share its meagerness with him. The father filled a goblet for their guest, retaining only drops for themselves.

Death was quite relieved to have slaked his thirst. He turned his attention to the mother kneading the last of the oil from the jug with the last of the flour they possessed. This one cake of bread would be their last. Death, whose stomach now growled, asked if he might have it. The mother and son looked to the father. This young traveler was their guest: All the hospitality of their house was his. They would forgo this last meal and bid Death to visit them all the sooner, as visit them he surely would. Without hesitation, the father offered the young man the small loaf.

Death had not been expecting this generosity, having witnessed so much pettiness and selfishness in his travels. He took the bread and ate it, then stood to take his leave. But before he departed, he spoke to the family:

“You have shared your food and water with a stranger, not from your surplus but from your want. It is within my power to reward your generosity. As each has given me his portion, to each I offer a gift. Name whatever you wish and it shall be granted you.”

The father said his only desire was to be able to provide for his family. And so Death gave him a wand that had power to generate water in the drinking jar, and oil and flour enough for making bread.

The mother said her only desire was to shelter her family. And so Death gave her a veil which would give warmth to those wrapped in it during chill times, provide cooling shade in times of heat, and would shield them from outward dangers.

When the boy was asked what he desired, he told the stranger that he cared only to protect his family. To him Death gave a stone for his slingshot. It would smite all enemies unerringly and then return to the hand which had slung it.

With that, Death left the family, glad to see that their names had vanished from his list.

Another year passed before the rains came and the famine lifted. In that time, the family’s jar of water was never empty, nor did the jug of oil or the crock of flour ever run out: There was always enough to make one more loaf. Neighbors and strangers came to the door of the hut; no one was refused the bread they asked for.

One neighbor, however, was jealous that this family should have these treasures and not himself. He plotted with other scoundrels to seize hold of the wand. When they came to attack the family one night, the mother sheltered her husband and son behind her magic veil. The son, being as brave as he was earnest, protested and slipped out of the hut to face the brigands. Holding his slingshot, he warned them off their evil purpose. The brigands laughed at the boy, insulting his parents with jeers and slurs. When they advanced on him, he let the magic stone fly; it struck one of the men on the brow and launched itself back to the boy. Frightened to see the death of their comrade, the brigands rushed at the boy all at once, wrested the stone away from him, and murdered him. They went away boasting that one of the gifts was now in their hands.

Piteous was the grief of the boy’s parents. For two days and two nights they watched over him in a vigil salted with tears that their greatest treasure, their son, had been taken from them.

Yet, the stone gave no peace to the brigands who fought over it, each trying to slay his fellows with it only to suffer the wrath of the stone upon himself. In fright they abandoned the stone and fled the village. A young maiden, a faithful friend of the family, came upon the stone and, recognizing it for what it was, took it to the hut where the boy’s mother and father were weeping. The girl gave the stone back to the father who, with his wife, returned it to the hand of their son in loving commemoration.

The boy stirred and wakened from the dead. Gladness reigned in their house for all days after. At the proper age the boy wed the maiden, and to their sons and daughters the three sacred treasures passed down through the ages.

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Fiction: 02/25/09 | Posted By: Koishi Magna | 4 comments | Harry Potter