Michael Ryan Chandler

Bartel and the Witch

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There once was a swineherd who had a taste for young village women. His name was Bartel, and he had a smooth and handsome face. Bartel could play the lyre and dance and sing. He could quote long snatches of poetry he had heard in the villages along the river where he ranged. 

 

Now when Bartel came into a village, he would announce himself with a song. The village elders and merchants took this as the simple declaration of a swineherd bringing his flock to town, perhaps to sell a piglet or two, or even to slaughter a boar and feast, if there was cause for celebration. And indeed, the song that left Bartel’s lips when he entered a village, did announce himself for business. Only it was a business that had nothing to do with merchants and everything to do with his female admirers. 

 

The young women of the villages were thrilled by the silvery sounds of the swineherd’s verses. He had woven a scarlet ribbon into his hair. Something he had won in a game of chance during a summer solstice festival. The sight of the scarlet ribbon would quicken the hearts of the young village women, who would compete for the swineherd’s affection.

 

Now all of this had gone on for a number of years, and in that time, Bartel had broken the hearts of many village women. He was cruel with his victims. He had the powers of a charmer, and with a certain look or the merest brushing of the back of a hand, the swineherd could illicit a flush of deep heat in a woman’s most intimate places.

 

All along the river, Bartel left broken-hearted women, and some even became pregnant with child. In each case, he abandoned both mother and child, leaving them broken and alone. An iron door guarded Bartel’s heart. For the women, Bartel had only the cruel fire of his lust.

 

One day, as Bartel sat beside the river watering his flock of pigs, a witch appeared. “You have abused the women of these villages for too long. You have used your charm to overpower them. The cruel form of lust that you practice is without love or nourishment. Thus you must be punished.” And the witch turned Bartel into a loathsome toad. 

 

Bartel, seeing that he was changed into a vile toad, fell into despair. “Oh, you evil witch!” Cried Bartel. “You have changed me into a creeping animal. How shall I tend my flock? How shall I roam from village to village and sing? Look! My scarlet ribbon lies in the dirt!” But the witch was already gone.

 

After that, the power of speech left Bartel. The pigs scattered, and the swineherd was left alone. The day fell, and night came on. A cold moon rose in the sky, like a glowing piece of glass. Bartel heard things moving in the undergrowth beside the river, and he thought of the cruel embrace of the serpent or the sharp snap of a fox’s jaws. Bartel hid himself in the reeds until the dawn. When light broke in the East, he began to hop along the river, following its path, which he knew would eventually lead to a village. 

 

The sun rose and fell many times. The moon came out at night, and its shape changed, growing larger or smaller as it passed through the firmament. Bartel ate worms and beetles and all-manner of crawling things. As he crept along on his belly, Bartel cursed the witch. 

 

One day, Bartel came upon a town. He hopped along, until he came to a curious structure. The homes of the town were made of wood and thatched straw, but the structure was made of white marble. The white stone looked like an alien material in that town of wood and straw. Bartel contemplated the edifice. It was older and grander than any of the homes in the town. Yet the columned porticoes of white marble had fallen into ruin, as if no one knew how to repair the alien stone. 

 

Bartel lifted his nose to the air. He caught the faintest scent of something scintillating. He drew a deep breath, and his blood caught fire. Bartel felt a turning in his loins. The iron door of his heart remained sealed, and he became inflamed with the fire of his cruel lust.

 

Hopping past the white-marbled columns, Bartel followed the scent into heat and shadow. The tantalizing smell grew stronger, and Bartel could think of nothing but tracing the scent to its source. Deeper he passed into shadow. The heat grew more intense, so that the air was balmy with vapor. Bartel began to hear voices. They had a high, singing ring to them. There was the sound of laughter and the splashing of water. Then there was light. Bartel crept out of the shadows and discovered women.

 

The women were naked and ranged round a pool or swam in its waters. They chatted lightly or laughed. Their laughter was like the crisp, high ringing of bells on a cold, winter morning. Steam rose from the water, and Bartel surmised there was something in the ground that lent the water its heat. He watched the steam rise through a circular cut in the roof of white stone. The opening allowed sunlight into the bathhouse, yet the edges of the pool lay in shadows. 

 

At the head of the pool, and set back from the water, was a great mirror. The mirror was a large oval of ground glass set in stone. It looked so much like an enormous jewel, it was hard not to imagine it as a fabulous treasure that had been lost and then found, mounted securely in stone for all time. There was a stone bench in front of the mirror, and the women would go to and fro from the pool to the glass, and braid each other’s hair, and talk, and observe their features.

 

Bartel crept to the edge of the pool and jumped in. The water was warm and inviting. Bartel began to swim towards the women. The heat and the scent were having an effect upon him. The women were so close. Their breasts, the curves of their bodies, their lips drove him wild with desire. 

 

Bartel swam up to one of the women. Gently, he brushed her lower back with the tips of his fingers. The woman turned, and when she saw Bartel, she screamed. “A filthy toad! Kill it!” The women started screaming and thrashing in the water. “A toad! A dirty little beast has gotten in here with us!”

 

Now Bartel became afraid. He did not want to be killed by the women. One of the women grabbed a hairbrush from the side of the pool. She advanced on Bartel with the brush held high, ready to squish him flat. Bartel turned and started swimming away as quickly as he could, but he was scooped up in two hands and lifted out of the water.

 

“It’s ok. He’s just a cute, little toad,” said a comforting voice. Bartel looked, and he saw two, enormous eyes, filled with warmth, looking at him. “He’s a dirty, little worm-eater,” snarled the woman with the hairbrush. “Let me whack him and be done with it.” “No,” said the woman holding Bartel. “I won’t let you whack him. I like him.” 

 

When Bartel heard that, he flooded with relief. The women gathered round and stared down at Bartel. “Can’t you get warts from touching them?” asked one woman. “Isn’t his skin rough?” asked another. “My grandmother told me toads are witches familiars,” said a third. “He’s got something of the witch about him.” 

 

The woman who had saved him, held Bartel up. “Look,” she said. “He is a living creature. He is not evil.” Then she peered closely at Bartel and said, “Look at his eyes. They’re deep black with gold rings. They are a toad’s eyes, but it’s almost as though someone is there.” “He does have lovely eyes,” said one of the women. “I guess he’s not so bad,” said another. “I think we should keep him,” said the woman who had saved Bartel. There was some scattered grumbling, but it seemed the decision had been made. 

 

Bartel became a great favorite among the women of the bathhouse. As they bathed, or chatted, or styled their hair, they would pet Bartel, or carry him around as a companion, or even talk to him. They would tell Bartel about their troubles. In this way, he came to know of all the difficulties that troubled the women in their hearts and in their homes. He came to a better understanding of their spiritual lives and the questions that arose within them. 

 

Bartel longed to have his body of a man back. He longed for his silver-tongued voice of a charmer, for his scarlet ribbon. He ached to touch the women, to caress them, to impart a kiss. To be surrounded by such beautiful figures, and not be able to court them, was an agony. The women even remarked, “He stares greedily at our bodies just like a man, but he is a toad.” 

 

The words tore the heart out of Bartel, who remembered his days of easy roaming along the river. But when he recalled these times, he remembered the cruelty with which he had treated the village women. How he had deliberately broken their hearts and abandoned them with his children. When Bartel recalled his misdeeds of the past, he was filled with shame.  

 

One night, when Bartel was slumbering on the stone bench before the mirror, the woman who had saved him came into the bathhouse. Her soft footfalls against the stone were enough to wake Bartel from his slumber. He opened his large, black eyes with the gold rings. Through the circular hole cut in the roof, the moon glowed full, and cold, and white in distant space. 

 

The woman approached the stone bench and spoke to Bartel. “I don’t know why I’ve come here. It makes no sense for me to speak to you, a toad, a creature without speech, and yet, here I am.” “I am not a toad,” replied Bartel. “I am a man.” The woman was started. “You can speak!” 

 

“It is as I have said,” replied Bartel. “I was once a swineherd. I roamed throughout the land. I had many dealings with women, but I was cruel. I deliberately broke their hearts and abandoned both these women and my children to their fate. A witch turned me into a toad as punishment. For tonight only, I have been granted the power of speech, so that I may talk to you.”

 

“What is your name?” asked the woman who had saved him. “Bartel,” he replied. She looked into the mirror. There, instead of a toad, she saw a handsome man. He had a scarlet ribbon woven into his hair, and when she stared into the glass and he spoke, it was with the silvery tones of a poet. 

 

“Bartel, a strange force has brought me to you tonight. I cannot explain it, but I am here for a purpose,” she said, addressing the man in the mirror. “I feel it too,” said Bartel. “Something has pulled us together.” 

 

“Bartel,” began the woman. “May I pick you up?” Terror shot through Bartel. When he spoke, his voice shook. “You may pick me up.”

 

The woman grabbed Bartel and held him up. She stared into his black-gold eyes. Bartel felt a mounting dread. “May I hug you, Bartel?” Waves of cold terror poured through him. This was the most terrifying thing of all. “Hug me,” whispered Bartel. She pressed him to her chest. In that moment, the iron door of Bartel’s heart broke open, and he was flooded with warm, golden light. When the love hit Bartel, it hurt. There was a sharp jolt of pain, and Bartel gasped as though he’d been stabbed. 

 

Tears began to fall from Bartel’s eyes. When the tears struck the floor, the witch appeared. She perched on the edge of the circular hole in the roof. Her outline stood out black against the cold light of the moon. When she spoke, it was with the voice of the grave. “Thus have your tears earned back your life.” She snapped her claws once, and Bartel transformed.

 

“Bartel, you have become a man!” cried the woman who had saved him. Bartel looked in wonderment at his hands and feet. He looked up at the circular hole in the roof, but the witch was already gone and the dawn light began to spread across the sky. 

 

When Bartel looked in the mirror, he saw his old ribbon woven back into his hair, only now the ribbon was a brilliant green. Bartel turned to the woman who had saved him. “Thank you,” he said. “Do not thank me,” said the woman. “Thank your own heart.” 

 

Bartel grabbed his lyre from where it lay beside the stone bench. He walked out of the bathhouse into bright sunshine. He resumed his life, once more, of roaming along the river and singing and playing, only now the iron door of his heart lay open, and his ribbon, once scarlet, was now a brilliant green. 

 

Michael Ryan Chandler has had stories published in Necrology Shorts and The Central Review. He has worked as a landscaper, bartender, server, teacher, actor, voice actor, textbook editor, tutor, grocery store worker, cafeteria worker, warehouse worker, and freelance magazine writer, and have lived in Korea, Colombia, and Saudi Arabia. He currently resides in Chicago. Bienvenue au Danse, Michael.