Gilitrutt (2)

Once on a time, a smart active young peasant occupied a farm under the Eyafialla mountains. As his pasture land was good, he kept many sheep. These yielded him no small store of wool, and yet, it was no easy matter for him to keep a coat on his back; for the wife whom he had lately married, though young and healthy, was lazy to a degree, and gave herself little concern about the affairs of the house. Her husband was greatly dissatisfied, but could not induce her to mend her ways.

At the close of summer he gave her a large bundle of wool, and told her to be sure to spin it and work it up into coarse wadmal during the winter months. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll see about it bye and bye;” but at the same time looked as if she would far rather have nothing to do with it. She let it lie in a corner untouched, spite of the hints she got every now and then, from her husband. It was mid-winter before she fully made up her mind to set to work; and then she began to perplex herself, as to how she could get so much wool worked up, before the close of winter.

Just then, an ugly old woman came to the door, begging for alms.

“Can you do any work for me in return,” asked the peasant’s wife.

“Perhaps I can,” replied the old woman.

“But what kind of work would you have me to do?”

“I want you to make some coarse cloth for me, out of this wool.”

“Very well, let me have the wool then.”

And so, the peasant’s wife handed the large bag of wool to the old woman, who, without more ado, tossed it up on her back, at the same time saying,

“You may depend on my coming back with the cloth, the first day of summer.”

“But what payment will you ask for your work when you bring the cloth,” said the peasant’s wife.

“I won’t take any payment; but you must tell me what my name is, in three guesses.”

The peasant’s wife, too lazy to spin and weave for herself, agreed to this strange condition, and so the old woman departed.

As the winter months passed on, the peasant often asked what had become of the wool.

“Give yourself no concern about it,” said the wife, “you’ll have it back, all spun and woven, by the first day of summer.”

As he never could get any other answer, he at last ceased to talk about the wool. All this time his wife was trying to find out the old woman’s name, but all her efforts were unavailing. By the time the last month of winter came round she became so anxious and uneasy that she could neither eat nor sleep. Her husband was greatly distressed at the change which had come over her, and begged her to let him know what ailed her. Unable longer to keep the matter secret, she told him the whole.

He was very much startled at what he heard, and told her how very imprudent she had been, as the old woman was, most certainly, a witch, and would take her away if she failed in her bargain.

A day or two after this conversation, he had occasion to go up the adjoining mountain. He was so bowed down with grief, at the thought of losing his wife, that he scarcely knew what he was about; and so wandered from the road, till he came to the bottom of a lofty cliff. While he was considering how he could get into the right road again, he thought he heard a sound as of a voice inside the hill. Following the sound he discovered a hole in the face of the cliff. On peeping through this hole, he saw a tall old woman sitting weaving with the loom between her knees; and, as she beat the treadles, every now and then breaking into a snatch of song,

“Ha! Ha! and Ho! Ho!
The good wife does not know
That Gilitrutt is my name.”

“Aha!” muttered the peasant to himself, “if she does not know now, she will know bye and bye;” for he felt quite sure that was the same old hag who had so imposed on his poor foolish wife.

All the way home, he kept repeating the word _Gilitrutt_, and, as soon as he got in doors, he wrote it down on a piece of paper, that he might not forget it. But he did not, at that time, give his wife the least inkling of what had befallen him. The poor woman grew more and more sorrowful, as the days passed on; and, when the closing day of winter came, she was so woe-begone that she had not the heart even to put on her clothes. In the course of the day, her husband enquired if she had found out her visitor’s name yet.

“Alas, no! Would to God I could find it out! for I am like to die of grief.”

“There is no occasion for that,” he replied cheerfully, “I’ve found out the name for you; so you need not be afraid to meet the old hag.” With that, he handed her the piece of paper, and at the same time told about his adventure on the mountain. She took the paper, with a trembling hand, for at first she feared that the news was too good to be true; and, though her husband’s story comforted her not a little, she could not get rid of a suspicion that the name might not be the true one.

She wanted her husband to stay indoors the next day, so as to be present when the old woman called.

“No! no!” said he, “you kept your own counsel when you gave her the wool, so, you must do without me when you take in the cloth, and pay her the wages agreed on.”

He then left the house.

And now came the first day of summer. The peasant’s wife was in the house alone, and lay a-bed, listening with a beating heart for the first sound of the old hag’s footsteps. She had not long to wait; for, before the morning passed, a trampling noise was heard, and in stalked the old woman with a bundle on her back, and a scowl on her face. As soon as she got within the room, she threw down the big bundle of cloth, and, in an angry tone, called out,

“What is my name now? What’s my name?”

The peasant’s wife, who was almost dead with fear, said “Signy!”

“That my name! That my name! guess again, good wife.”

“Asa,” said she.

“That my name! That my name! No indeed. You must guess again; but remember this is your last chance.”

“Are you not called Gilitrutt?” said the woman timorously.

This answer came like a thunderbolt on the old hag, who fell down with a great noise on the floor, and lay there for sometime. She then got up, and, without speaking a word, went her way out of the house, and was never more seen in the country-side.

As for the peasant’s wife, she was full of joy at her deliverance, and, ever after, was a changed woman. She became a pattern of industry and good management, and henceforth always worked her own wool herself.