Onion Soup and Apples of Gold ( a fairytale)

This is the story of two very different sisters who lived a long time ago. But that’s not the proper way to begin a fairy tale, so I’d best start again. (Ahem)

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a poor gardener who specialized in growing onions. The gardener had two daughters who were as different as night and day. (See? That’s a better beginning.)

The elder daughter was named Eartha. She was said to be plain looking with grey eyes, lack-luster, blond hair and a bit of a crooked smile, but she had a twinkle in her eye which her father said was like the summer sunshine on a dark winter day. More often than not, Eartha was sun-burnt from working long days outdoors.

Eartha was practical, kind, hard-working and radiant. She was one of those eternally hopeful, energetic people who finds good in even the worst of circumstances and always had a kind word to say. With a song in her mouth and a smile (even if it was a bit crooked) on her lips, she tackled the hard life of a poor gardener’s daughter.

Eartha was like a balloon under water. Have you ever held a ball or balloon under water? The further down you hold it or the more pressure you put on it, the higher it flies when it is released. It shoots out of the water and fairly flies into the air! That was Eartha. There was just no holding her down.

Eartha’s younger sister was named Griselda. She was considered a great
beauty with lustrous black hair, fair skin, deep green eyes and red lips. Neighbors and strangers always stopped to compliment the gardener on his stunningly beautiful child and to tell him what a lucky man he was to have such a jewel in such a plain, ordinary setting.

Now Griselda, as you know, was Eartha’s opposite. She complained and grumbled all the day long and was generally in a nasty temper. When she spoke, it was to criticize or to find fault or to whine about her circumstance in life. She thought the life of a poor gardener’s daughter was beneath her. After all, everyone said that with beauty like hers, she was surely meant to marry nobility.

If work was to be done in the sun, Griselda would complain of a headache. When it was time to weed the garden or gather fuel for the fire or sweep the cottage floor, Griselda would offer to go berry picking or fishing instead, though she never came back with a basket of berries or a creel full of fish. In short, Griselda was as lazy as Eartha was industrious.

Now it happened one day that the lord of the manor planned to hold a feast in a week’s time, so the lord’s cook sent for the gardener to consult on the menu and to procure some of his finest onions and vegetables.

Early the next morning, the gardener carefully selected a handful of his finest onions and potatoes and a cabbage as a sample of his wares until he and the cook should settle on a fair price for the produce.

As he left, he charged his daughters, Eartha and Griselda, to care for the house and to tend the garden until he returned. He gently reminded them to be sure to weed the vegetable beds and to water them well as their fortunes may depend on the success of the garden.

When he kissed Eartha goodbye, he whispered a gardener’s prayer, “May you reap what you sow.”

Eartha hugged him merrily and promised to care for the cottage and garden.

The gardener then turned to Griselda and whispered the same prayer, “May you reap what you sow.”

Griselda pouted a bit and then asked her father to bring back a gift for her.

“We’ll see,” the old gardener said and turned his steps toward the castle which was nearly a half-day’s walk away.

Almost as soon as the humble gardener was out of sight, an old gypsy woman hobbled up to the cottage door begging for food. Griselda was repulsed by the beggar woman’s appearance and turned back into the cottage, saying, “We have nothing to spare. Can’t you see we are poor?”

But Eartha, seeing that the gypsy was about to faint, quickly stepped to the old woman’s side and asked how she could help.

“You must be very hungry,” she said. “Here, sit down, have one of our apples to eat. My sister is right, we don’t have much, but we’ll share what we have. Is there anything you would like?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d just like a cup of water,” replied the old woman.

Now, Eartha did not hesitate, but quickly ran to the well to get a cup of water while Griselda, seeing that work was to be done, declared that she was going berry picking (which, translated, means she was going to take a long nap in the woods!).

As Eartha continued with her work, weeding the garden, washing clothes, and feeding the chickens, the old gypsy cleared her throat quietly with a soft, “Ahem.”

Eartha turned to her politely as the old woman began, “Since you are so kind as to offer me water, I was wondering if you would mind going to the next hamlet to fetch water from their well? I’ve heard that the water there is the clearest, coldest, sweetest water in the kingdom.”

Eartha smiled widely and cheerfully agreed, saying, “I’ve been meaning to visit my old friend there! What a wonderful opportunity you have given me to rekindle an old friendship. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I imagine the water is as cold and refreshing as it was when I was last there!”

“Amen!” the old woman said. And so Eartha grabbed a bucket, set out at a quick pace, singing and smiling, enjoying the sunshine along the way, and remembering how cool and delicious the water at the well was. When she reached the next hamlet, she was hot but happy. A few farm workers were at the well and she called to her friend, “Halloooo!” They chatted briefly until her friend had to return to her daily chores.

When she tasted the water, it was the sweetest, most refreshing thing she had ever tasted in her life. She immediately felt even more energized and declared, “It’s just as I thought it would be and even sweeter and colder!”

So Eartha filled her bucket with as much cool, delicious water as she could and turned her steps toward home. When she was half-way home, she noticed that the wooden bucket seemed lighter and thought, “Ah, of course it feels lighter because it is such a beautiful day to be out of doors.”

When she was nearly home, she looked down and saw that the bucket was almost empty. “No wonder it felt so light,” Eartha laughed out loud, “There must be a hole in the bucket, because I know I was diligent not to let too much spill out.”

Sure enough, upon further inspection, Eartha discovered the hole and sat down to mend it, thinking, “If the water tasted sweet the first time, it must surely taste even sweeter the second.” Then she tore a piece of cloth from her apron and stuffed it in the hole and ran back to the well. She was not disappointed. The water tasted even better than the first time, so she filled her bucket again and returned home, singing and humming as she went.

When she got home, she offered a cup of the sweet water to the old gypsy woman and set about filling a pot to make some soup for the evening’s supper. Next, she began to build up the fire to boil the water. As she was working, she heard another small, “Ahem” from the old woman.

Eartha smiled and asked, “Is there something on your mind, Babka?” (Babka means grandmother or old woman.)

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” began the old woman, “I’ve heard that dried manure and hedge wood makes the best fire. I think I saw some along the cow pasture leading down to the village a few miles back.”

Eartha laughed again and said, “Well, Babka, you were right about the water and I’ve been meaning to gather hedge wood anyway. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I imagine a fire made of dried cow dung and hedge wood would make a very cheery fire!”

“Amen!” the old woman said.

Eartha briskly gathered a small wheel barrow and a hatchet and set out for the village path. Along the way, she saw fields of gorgeous flowers and lifted her face to the light of the sun, thinking, “A good fire will be very cheerful this evening when father gets back from the lord’s manor.”

As she neared the village, she came to the pasture the old woman had described. She gathered a few dried up cow pies (some people call them ‘dung cakes’, but I don't think they resemble pies, cakes, or any desserts I've ever seen) and began collecting hedge wood. Now hedge wood has thorns and is difficult to gather, but Eartha sang as she worked which always seemed to lighten her load even with the most onerous of tasks.

She took her apron and wrapped it around her left hand to protect it from the thorns while she grasped the hatchet in her right hand. Soon she had a small pile of branches which she loaded into the wheel barrow. She wrapped her apron about her waist and headed for home.

When she was almost half-way home, she noticed that the wheel barrow was getting more difficult to manage. Just as she stopped to investigate, the wheel fell off. Eartha laughed at the sight and took off her apron once again. This time she laid the apron flat on the ground, then loaded it with as much dung and as many thorny branches as she could carry, tied up the bundle, carried it on her back and soon reached the cottage.

When she got there, she quickly set about building a fire under the pot. When she stepped back to admire her work, she declared, “It’s just as cheery and bright as I thought it would be and even better!” And she invited the old woman to sit by the fire.

As Eartha began to collect her small gardening tools to gather a few potatoes, the old gypsy cleared her throat quietly with a soft, “Ahem.”

Eartha turned to her politely as the old woman began, “Since you are so kind as to make soup, I was wondering if you would mind making a nice, clear onion soup.”

Now, Eartha did not flinch a bit, even though she knew that her father was planning to sell every onion to the lord’s cook for the upcoming feast. Instead, she agreed that a nice onion soup would be perfect when made with the fresh, clear water and cooked on a cheery fire.

“Amen,” said the old woman. So Eartha invited the old woman to sit on a bench outside in the garden while she set about weeding and watering and gathering onions. As she began to hoe along the row of onions, the hoe broke in her hands.

“It was a good, sturdy tool for many years,” Eartha said. “I’m glad it lasted as long as it did.” And she knelt down to finish pulling the weeds by hand, then pulled five beautiful onions from the onion patch and washed them at the well.

Her hands were blistered from all the hoeing and weeding and pushing the wheel barrow, but Eartha did not complain.

Daylight was beginning to wane and she laughed as tears poured down her face. She was slicing onions and laughing at the false tears while she and the old woman chatted about this and that.

With a pinch of salt and pepper, fresh water and wine, herbs, onions, and a bit of butter in the pot, the onion soup was soon ready. Eartha offered the woman a hunk of day-old bread which was all they had and some fresh goat’s milk to go with their meal. Then, Eartha declared that it was a meal fit for a king, saying, “It’s just as I imagined it would taste and better! But how could it be any different with the sweetest water and a bright fire and the best onions?”

Griselda came sauntering in with an empty basket and sleep in her eyes as the old woman got up to leave. In spite of Eartha’s urging her to stay the night, the gypsy thanked Eartha quietly and mumbled something about receiving the “fruit of her lips” as she shuffled out the door and into the darkness.

Not long after, the old gardener appeared, tired from his long day’s journey to bargain with the lord’s cook about the price of the produce. The cook had been amazed at the sweetness of the onions and had demanded that the gardener sell them all to the lord’s house. The gardener agreed after they settled on a fair price and returned home.

When the gardener asked his daughters how they had passed the day, Griselda whined and complained that she had been bored with nothing to do but work her fingers to the bone picking a few measly berries.

“I don’t know why I bother berry picking at all,” she said. “There are never any berries when I look and the woods were full of briars just as I suspected. See? My hands are cut through.” And she displayed her beautiful hands which had one small scratch on them.

“And how was your day, Eartha?” he asked.

“It was as pleasant as any I’ve ever passed,” she answered contentedly. And as she finished her sentence, a tiny golden apple fell out of her mouth. Her father caught it and cried, “What’s this?”

They all looked at it curiously and were astonished through and through. Upon further inspection, they determined that it must be solid gold and was beautifully crafted.
As they rejoiced in their good fortune, Eartha realized it must have had something to do with the old gypsy woman.

“Oh, that must be what the kind old woman meant when she said that I would receive the fruit of my lips,” she said. And with that, another small apple of gold fell out of her mouth.

“Kind old woman?” asked Griselda. “Do you mean that nasty, old beggar woman? She smelled bad and looked shifty to me! Why do all the good things happen to Eartha? Nothing good ever happens to me!” she whined as she stamped her pretty, little foot.

The gardener looked from one child to the other and Eartha related the events of the day, ending with the mumbled blessing of the old woman. Every time Eartha said something kind or laughed at the mishaps of her day, another tiny, golden apple appeared in her mouth, so she had quite a time telling her tale.

As it had been a very long day, the gardener put the golden apples in a wooden chest and went to bed. But before he could lay his head down to rest, a messenger knocked loudly at the door asking the gardener to bring samples of the rest of his vegetables to the lord’s cook the next day.
In the morning, the gardener went out to the garden, commended the girls for such a good job of weeding and reminded them to water the vegetable patch as he set off with a linen bundle of carrots, beets, turnips, a few herbs and one tiny golden apple which had fallen from Eartha’s lips.
As he kissed his daughters goodbye, the gardener reminded them that they were fortunate to reap what they had sown and soon their fortunes would be made.

Eartha set to work by watering the garden and building a fire for the bread oven. Next, she prepared the dough for the bread to let it rise near the bread oven. Then, she thought that a nice berry pie would be a welcome treat for her father at the end of the day. So with the rest of her work caught up, she picked up a small basket and headed to the forest to pick berries.

No sooner had Eartha disappeared into the forest than the old gypsy woman appeared at the door of the cottage and knocked on the door. Griselda grumpily got up to answer the door. She was not in the habit of doing much in the mornings and had gone back to bed as soon as her father had left. So, being in a foul mood, Griselda rudely answered the door, swinging it open and glaring at the old woman. Then she remembered the small golden apples and thought, “If my plain sister can get this old bag to give her golden apples, then surely, I deserve as much.”

“Good morning, Baba. What can I do for you? Won’t you sit down?” Griselda asked sweetly.

“Ahem,” the gypsy began.

“Well, what is it?” Griselda asked impatiently and then recovered herself and asked more kindly, “I mean, how may I help you?”

“Please, if it’s not too much trouble, could you fetch me a cup of water from the neighboring hamlet’s well?” the gypsy asked quietly.

“Why would I want to go all that distance?” asked Griselda. “Our water’s good enough for us and for our goats.”

And then she caught herself and thought of the gold reward, saying, “But if you have your heart set on water from the neighbor’s stinky well, then who am I to argue?”

“Amen,” the old woman quietly muttered.

And off Griselda went with a small pitcher to gather water from the neighboring hamlet, grumbling and complaining the whole way and thinking that Eartha got all the breaks while she had to slave away.

When she got there, she was quite warm from the walk though it was a cool morning. She filled the pitcher and thought, “This water is nothing special but I deserve a drink after walking so far to get here.”

And she took a drink but spit it out, saying, “It’s just as I suspected. This water stinks and is bitter! But since the old woman insisted on having this water and I have gone to all this trouble, I suppose I should take a pitcher to her after all.”

Then she turned her steps toward the cottage and grumbled along the way. She had only taken a few steps from the well when she tripped and dropped the pitcher of water.

“It’s just as I suspected. Something always goes awry. I don't know why my task should be so much more difficult than my sister's," she said. "Well, as I don’t feel like returning to get more water, the old woman will have to make do with the few drops which are left.”

And so saying, she walked home and gave the old woman the pitcher, explaining how she had dropped it and was too tired to go back to the well and hoped the old woman would understand.

“I understand very well,” the gypsy said.

After a moment, Griselda heard a quiet, “Ahem.”

“Yes, old woman? What can I do for you?” Griselda asked treacle sweetly.

“Perhaps, if it is not too much trouble,” the gypsy woman said gently, “perhaps, you could make a fire to take the chill off the morning. I hear that the dried cow dung and hedge wood from the pasture near the village make a great fire.”

Thinking all the time of the apples made of gold, Griselda agreed to fetch wood for a fire. She looked for the wheel barrow, but it was broken from the day before, so she took a goat and some twine. She led the goat along the path to the pasture, grumbling the whole time and saying, “I have it so hard. If I had had the wheel barrow like my sister did, my task would be so much easier. With my luck, the hedge wood will be burnt before I get there. I certainly will not touch that nasty manure.”

Sure enough, just as Griselda approached the pasture, she noticed that some of the farmers had burnt the hedge wood and nothing was left but charcoal.

“It’s just as I foresaw and worse,” she complained loudly.

A farm hand, who was working nearby, heard Griselda’s complaint and was moved by her beauty, so he offered to help her gather charcoal which he said would make a better fire anyway. He gathered small logs of charcoal and bundled them up for Griselda and loaded them on the small goat to carry. When he offered to shake her hand in friendship, Griselda turned away, disgusted by his soot blackened hands.

“Surely, he couldn’t mean to touch my white hands with his dirty fingers,” she thought and walked away.

Griselda looked at the dried cow manure but was not inclined to pick it up, so she left it there and led her goat back home.

When she reached home, she led the goat with its bundle to the old woman. When the gypsy asked if there were any dried dung for fuel, Griselda lied and said there was none to be found.

“I had to slave away to gather this bit of charcoal,” she whined. “This is all that was left of that wretched field. I must lie down as I feel a headache coming on from all this exertion. I have fairly worn myself to the bone for you.”

The old woman eyed her closely, noticing Griselda’s pure white hands. Then, as Griselda did not seem inclined to make a cheerful fire on the hearth, the old woman set about building a fire.

Griselda lay in the corner and said to herself, “Only one more task and the gold will be mine.”

“Ahem,” the old mother cleared her throat softly.

“Yes, Old Mother?” Griselda asked. “Is there something you wish?”

“Well, if it is not too much trouble and if my nose does not deceive me, I should love a piece of fresh bread.”

Thinking greedily of the gold apples, Griselda agreed begrudgingly and muttered under her breath, saying, “With my luck, the fire will be too low or the bread will have fallen. My sister has it easy. Why are my tasks so much more difficult than hers?”

“Amen,” the gypsy said quietly.

But when Griselda got to the oven, the fire was fine, but the bread hadn’t been kneaded. “Aha, it’s just as I foresaw and worse,” Griselda cried. “The bread is not baked and I am too tired to do it myself. It will take all day.”

When she returned to the cottage, she lied to the old woman. “Uh!” she pouted. “My lazy sister has not finished baking the bread and it is ruined. I am sorry, Babka, but there is no bread to be had except for this old crust.”

She handed the gypsy a crust of two-day old bread, thinking, “The old cow won’t know the difference between fresh bread and stale bread anyway. She should be grateful for this crumb.”

The old woman thanked Griselda kindly and said, “May you receive the fruit of your lips.”

Then, she turned and hobbled out the door and down the path.

No sooner had she left than Eartha and her father both returned. Eartha carried a basket filled with berries, her arms scratched and bleeding, her face sun burned, and a huge grin on her face. She immediately set about baking the bread and making a berry pie for her father.

Griselda couldn’t wait to tell the tale of her day as she thought that Eartha should not have all the fun. So as Eartha worked and prepared their supper, Griselda and the gardener gathered in the bread oven house to warm themselves and to recount the day’s events.

The gardener gathered his daughters and as he was fairly bursting, he told them the good news of his second meeting with the lord’s cook. The cook had been so impressed with the quality of their vegetables that he signed a contract with the gardener to provide vegetables for the lord’s table for the next 20 years.

Then, as the old gardener was leaving by way of the kitchen garden, he was admiring the fruit trees and had remembered Eartha’s tiny golden apple. So he pulled it from a cloth and was looking at it. The lord of the manor saw him and asked him what he was holding in his hand, thinking that the gardener had stolen one of his crab apples.

The gardener showed the lord of the manor the golden apple and explained the strange tale of how his daughter’s words and laughter produced tiny, solid gold apples. The lord was so amazed that he asked the gardener what kind of woman his daughter was. The gardener explained that he had two daughters; one very good, the other very beautiful. When he heard about the daughters, the manor lord begged the old gardener to allow him to visit them the next day.

And they all rejoiced in the news. Eartha was assured a good home since she could provide for herself now. The old man had a good contract for business and Griselda was sure to be married soon as she was the pretty daughter. They felt sure that all their fortunes were made. Griselda had seen the old woman, too.

Griselda was eager to tell them of how the old woman had come back, making demands all day and putting her out. She told how the gypsy had ordered her about with demands for water and a fire and bread. She told them how she had worked her fingers to the bone all day for the ungrateful old gypsy. But as she closed her story with the gypsy’s parting words, instead of a tiny golden apple, a poisonous snake fell out of her mouth.

Griselda was mortified. “It’s just as I suspected,” she cried. “My sister has an easy life while nothing good ever happens to me.” And another snake plopped out.

The next day, the manor lord arrived with great pomp and circumstance. He was attended by a small retinue as he toured the humble gardener’s land.

When he was presented with the gardener’s daughters, he was taken back by Griselda’s beauty. She looked lovelier than any finely dressed woman in his court. Her deep black hair shone in the sunlight, her green eyes blazed, and her red lips seemed to be poised in a permanent pout.

The lord pulled her aside to talk with her privately, but when she opened her mouth to answer, she began to complain of her state and a viper fell from her lips. The seigneur jumped back and ordered his guards to seize her, thinking that she must be part of some plot to assassinate him. Griselda started to protest, but each time she spoke, a snake appeared.

Eartha heard the commotion and ran to her sister’s side. When she understood the lord’s concern, she quickly came to her sister’s defense. And with each kind word about her lovely sister, a tiny golden apple fell from her mouth.

The seigneur saw that Eartha was not only rich, but he saw the beauty of her heart. To him, she did not look plain, but radiant. Her grey eyes defied and laughed at the same time. Her pale hair looked like platinum in the sun. And her sunburned face showed good humor with every slightly crooked smile.

When the lord of the manor saw Eartha’s smile, he laughed heartily at the misunderstanding.

That day, both daughters received the fruit of their lips.

With each complaint, a small viper would appear in Griselda’s mouth. The manor lord spared her life, but only upon condition that she kept her mouth shut. Many suitors came who had heard of her beauty, but were frightened away by the snakes. And so she learned to bite her tongue.

One day, as she was strolling through the back gardens, Griselda overheard a washer woman gossiping with a vaguely familiar voice who was saying, “Ahem. 'If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all' is my motto.”

Whenever Eartha laughed or sang, a small, bright golden apple fell from her mouth. Many suitors came, but Eartha chose the lord of the manor because he laughed best. She was often heard to say, “He’s just as I imagined and better!”

Honest Eartha married the lord of the manor and lived quite happily and contentedly the rest of her life. (But then, she probably would have lived happily and contentedly no matter what her lot in life.)

The End