The Alder-King's Whisper

📜 The whole story (transcript)

Come, come, sit near the fire — the wind is up tonight, and the wind, my darling, is the oldest gossip in the world. It carries a story I first heard in the black forests of the Rhine, from a woodcutter with only three fingers on his left hand. I shall not tell you how he lost the other two. Not tonight. In those forests there rides, on nights when the mist walks upright, a very old king. Not a king of any country you would find on a map. He wears a crown of alder twigs, and his beard is made of river-fog, and his horse has no hooves — only the sound of hooves, which is not the same thing at all. The old ones call him the Alder-King. And he collects children. Oh, do not be frightened — he does not take them. He only asks. That is his single, terrible rule: he must be invited. He rides beside a child on horseback, close enough to breathe upon their ear, and he whispers the loveliest promises. Golden toys. Sisters made of starlight. A mother who never, ever grows tired. The child in the story — a small boy, wrapped in his father's cloak — heard him. And the father, galloping through the trees, heard nothing at all. 'Do you not see him, father? Do you not hear?' 'Hush, my son. It is only the wind in the willows. Only the grey mist on the moor.' But the Alder-King leaned closer. And closer. And he said, in a voice softer than snow falling on snow: 'Come with me, little one. I like you very much.' And the boy — brave, clever boy — held his father tighter and said, quite clearly, 'No, thank you, sir. I am already loved.' And do you know what happened? The Alder-King bowed. He bowed! Right there in the saddle. For that is his other rule: a polite 'no, thank you' is a spell he cannot break. He rode away into the mist, and was not seen again that night. Remember this, my dear. When something whispers in your ear and promises the moon — you may always, always say no, thank you. It is the oldest magic there is.